


Sturm Und Drang

by Ginger_kitty



Series: Worlds Enough and Time [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Background Relationships, Boys In Love, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Minor Inquisitor/The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Multi, Platonic Romance, Romance, Sacrifice, Sex, Slow Romance, Temper Tantrums, Therapy, Torture, Trauma, Trust Issues, minor leliana/morrigan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 21:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_kitty/pseuds/Ginger_kitty
Summary: Sturm und Drang as an artform emphasises an episodic structure and a focus on the personal, on strong emotion and sentimentalism.  I used it as the basis of this story.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Original Character(s)
Series: Worlds Enough and Time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873099
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	1. The Ostwick Circle

Every Circle was different, and every Circle was the same. Tower or fortress, the centre of a Circle was its library and in every room and corridor templars roamed at will while mages pretended to ignore their existence. In every Circle, life was circumscribed by the Chantry, daily prayers reminding the mages of their curse and the templars of their duty to watch for any sign, however small, of forbidden magic. Every Circle was the same, and every Circle was different. But across southern Thedas it was agreed that no Circle was quite as different as Ostwick.

The Ostwick Circle of Magi inhabited a sprawling castle complex almost at the borders of the city-state, nestled in a narrow valley at the foot of the Vimmark Mountains. A stranger passing through the gates could be forgiven for believing themselves entering the home of a wealthy Bann or even Arl, if the sunburst was not displayed on every available surface and body. 

There were no servants in Ostwick, mages and templars alike were assigned chores around their other duties, from cleaning chambers to farming the modest lands of the valley. Mages, templars and priests tilled soil, cooked, cleaned, smithed and studied - but never together. No apprentice ever stood beside a sister to peel potatoes, the knights might scrub the floors, but never where their charges might observe, and areas were open or forbidden depending on the work happening and who was doing it. Ostwick was a peaceful and well-ordered prison, but a prison it remained. 

When Evelyn Trevelyan came to Castle Laedon, it seemed the end of the world. Her entire life she had followed her brothers, begging them to teach her to shoot, hunt, fight, dreaming of becoming a ranger, exploring the wilderness and travelling the world. Her parents dreams for her were more modest, marriage to a man who could extend their influence and indulge their daughters wild ways, children for them to dote over. The morning 12 year old Evelyn woke from a nightmare to discover her blankets on fire all those dreams were dashed. And so she stood in the courtyard of her new home, clinging to her brother and begging him not to leave. 

"Hush, Puss, it will be fine." She tried to burrow into Stefan's chest while their parents spoke to the First Enchanter and Maxwell looked disapprovingly at her, embarrassed by her outburst. All three Trevelyan children had dark hair and eyes, long, straight noses and high cheekbones, their dusky skin harking back to a Rivaini great-grandmother. 16 year old Stefan was their leader in every way. Though short and slightly built, he carried an aura of authority, not only an awareness of his status as heir but charisma and intelligence that made men twice his age listen to his counsel. Max at 15 looked exactly what he was - a warrior, strong and sturdy. Well over 6 foot already he carried a greatsword taller than Evelyn on his back with ease. Only two years remained of his templar training and she had wished he would go to Laedon once knighted, to be close to family, able to visit on leave, but her presence now made that impossible, no two family members could serve in the same Circle, in any capacity, let alone a templar and a mage. Instead he would be sent to another Circle, perhaps Kirkwall as it was the closest. It’s knight-commander was relatively new, a younger woman who would no doubt be looking for new blood, and the Trevelyan name opened doors across the Free Marches, if Max wished it.

Evelyn herself was a study in contrasts. She shared her mother’s slight build with Stefan but at twelve was already several inches taller than her oldest brother. Her childish features promised to develop into a breath-taking beauty, but at present she was coltish and ungainly, clumsily trying to adjust to a body that often felt like it belonged to someone else. The only time she was truly graceful was when climbing; scaling walls, trees and anything that took her fancy and earning her the nickname of “Puss” when at three years old she had climbed to the highest shelf in the dairy to steal the cream and it had taken almost an hour and Stefan being called from his lessons to coax her back down. She was the youngest, and the only girl, and as such was spoiled by parents, brothers and most of their retainers and servants, only her nursemaid and the Revered Mother had attempted to instil any sense of control in Evelyn and so she had avoided them as often as possible, truanting from her lessons where her brothers were diligent, giving free rein to her emotions while mocking the boys for their restraint. No punishment had any effect on Evelyn Trevelyan, no locked room could hold her for long, no disapproving lecture or disappointed remonstrance from her parents made any impression on her willfulness, especially when she had only to glance at a book or treatise to understand it, grasping politics, history or mathematics with careless ease and frustrating her tutors by alternately avoiding lessons or finishing them in a fraction of the time it took others, even correcting the tutors themselves with barbed insolence. Only Stefan could influence her, calm her temper or encourage good behaviour. 

But Stefan would not be here, in the Circle where her very life might depend on learning control that had never interested her, where the wrong words or display of temper might sentence her to Tranquillity, and Evelyn was terrified of what lay before her. The Trevelyan family were known for their piety, their influence in the Ostwick Chantry and with the Teyrn and many high-ranking Templars had borne the name Trevelyan. What was less known, and only explained if a child manifested magical power, was their high rate of mage-born children, almost 1 in 4 developing magic while significantly more were ‘sensitives’, able to feel magic used and therefore invaluable to the templar order. Their connections protected them, although many were sent to faraway Circles and rumours of illness or even death put about to explain their disappearance. As the only mage born in this generation, Evelyn at least was safe to go to the Ostwick Circle and as a Trevelyan would informally retain her title. But the protection her family afforded her only went so far, and if Evelyn could not learn the discipline she had thus far lacked, she may not survive to her Harrowing no matter her name or lineage.

And so, eyes red, skin blotchy, nose running, Evelyn Trevelyan forcibly pulled herself from her brothers arms and walked into the Circle of Magi as if she owned it.

\---------

“Did you hear the news?” Evelyn looked up at Alex and frowned as he flopped into the chair beside her.

“What news? I’ve been rather busy Alex, the First Enchanter wants my preliminary findings before the end of the month.”

“Hmph, I don’t think the First Enchanter will give a crap about your research on, what was it, active versus latent talents? There’s a Blight!” That got her attention. There had been four Blights in the whole of history, the last so long ago it was presumed there would never be another, although her studies suggested there were at least another three Old Gods sleeping out there. A Blight meant the whole world trying to defend itself, Grey Warden numbers were so perilously low these days, Ostwick itself had no Warden presence at all. If a Blight rose in the Free Marches, thousands could die before anyone could help.

“A Blight? Where? Are we to mobilise?” She gathered her notes together, automatically sorting them into neat files even as she moved with urgency. Alex tried to help her but she shooed him, always reluctant to let anyone else handle her work.

“No, not here. Ferelden.” She relaxed a little. Ferelden lay to the south, across the Waking Sea, if the Blight was starting there then they had time, perhaps it could be stopped before it even reached these shores. Representatives would be needed, she would volunteer to go, but the thought that her family would be safe for a while longer was all that really mattered.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, a crowd had gathered. First Enchanter Owen stood on the dias, waiting patiently until all the senior enchanters and the most senior templars were gathered then raised his hand for silence. Even those still filing into the hall did so quietly, loathe to miss a word of the news and their plan of action.

“Most of you have heard the rumours, a Blight in Ferelden. I know this would normally mean full mobilisation of the nearest Circles, including ours. However, this afternoon I received a letter from Ferelden, from Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, acting as regent. I will read it, and have copies posted.

_ “To the Heads of the Circles of Magi, _

_ Whereas you may have heard rumours of a Ferelden Blight, I send reassurance that this is not so. A darkspawn horde has invaded the Wilds to the south of Ferelden, unfortunately claiming the life of our King, Cailan Theirin. As Regent to his Queen, Anora, I send word to our trusted allies and friends to put your minds at ease and assure you that no foreign aid is needed. _

_ Loghain Mac Tir _

_ Regent of Ferelden” _

There was silence in the hall as Owen finished reading the letter, then discontented murmuring, debates on what constituted a Blight or a Horde, debates on a common-born man, even one who was a hero, being a fit Regent for a country barely rebuilding after decades of Orlesian occupation, some offering to travel to Ferelden anyway to assist their brethren at Kinloch Hold, insisting it was a duty from the Chantry, not something for a secular authority to rule on, the very basis for their existence and training. Owen allowed this to continue until the volume raised as debate became argument, then held out his hand and called a bolt of lightning to explode into the air above him. As silence fell once more, he looked out over mages and templars alike, Knight-Commander Petrov stepping forward to stand beside him, indicating his agreement with the First Enchanter’s words.

“I have spoken with Revered Mother Astansia. The Grand Cleric of Ferelden has contacted each Chantry with a similar message. At this time, there is no Blight, merely a Horde complicated by the death of Ferelden’s King. Assistance is neither required, not wanted and we will not breach borders over rumours and speculation. Additional drills will be scheduled, in case the situation changes, but otherwise I suggest you all return to your work. And neither I nor Knight-Commander Petrov will tolerate gossip-mongering. You are dismissed.” With those words, the two men walked off the dias and left the hall.

Evelyn looked over at Alex with disgust. “You might at least have found out the whole story before you dragged me all the way here,” she said, wondering if there was time to return to the library before the dinner bell. Afterward, she was assigned kitchen duty and by the time everything was scrubbed and set up for the morning none of them would have energy for more than falling into bed. She had spent the past seven years disciplining herself, holding back her emotions, her temper, discovering a love of research, an affinity for the schools of matter and a fascination with the balance found not only in magic but in everything. She had passed her Harrowing with relative ease, only a fading burn scar on her side a reminder of the rage demon who had tried to play on long suppressed energies and ambitions. In the two years since, she had thrown that energy into her work and only chores or mandatory battlemage training would draw her out of the library. If she sometimes looked up at the beams high above and imagined sitting on them to read her scrolls and books, or if she looked up from the gardens she weeded to gaze longingly at the forest that edged the valley and continued up the mountains, she had learned to direct those feelings elsewhere and keep them hidden from the templars, and even the other mages, the very image of a perfect Circle mage.

\-----

Less than a year later, the castle was full of gossip once again. The Fifth Blight, ended by the new King and Queen of Ferelden, Loghain Mac Tir executed as traitor and regicide and his daughter exiled. Worst of all was the news that Ferelden’s Circle had fallen, destroyed by Mac Tir’s manipulation of the Libertarian Fraternity. Across Thedas the Libertarians lost traction as news of a Circle lost to blood mages and abominations travelled and the Chantry instructed the Templars to be more vigilant over their charges, more zealous in seeking out infractions that might lead to a repeat of the fall of Kinloch Hold, and the gilded cage felt more like a prison than ever. 

A few months after, Evelyn was summoned to a meeting with the most senior Enchanters and templars. She entered the First Enchanters office, hiding her nerves with a gracious smile and a slight bow of the head to those gathered. She placed a report on the desk and stood patiently, the image of serenity, waiting to see what this was all about. Owen waved her to a seat but it was Petrov who spoke,

“Junior Enchanter, you have been asked to present any information you have about entropic trauma? I would like you to summarise your findings for us?”

She had been expecting this, they could simply have read her work but only a few of the Senior Enchanters would have understood it. She also knew better than to ask why they wanted the information. All of the researchers in every Circle had been instructed to investigate ways to avoid a repeat of Kinloch Hold - every way except relaxation of the very restrictions that fueled the Libertarian movement, that is - or ways to counter if such a mass revolt ever again took place. Those who hadn’t followed Uldred had been tortured, their blood used to power spells and create more and more abominations. Rumour said only a handful of mages had survived, others that a single templar had been saved, still others that the Right of Annulment had been carried out and everyone within had died. Whatever the truth, Evelyn’s research had been put aside and she was instructed to investigate magical traumas and ways to heal a broken mind as well as a broken body.

“I will summarise as best I can, Ser,” she spoke with the quiet authority that made people forget she was only 19 years old, the youngest Enchanter even if only a very junior one. “Creation and Entropy are two sides of the same coin, one cannot exist without the other. While Primal and Spirit magic involves the movement of energy from one place or one form to another, both Creation and Entropy involve changes in nature. However, certain entropic magics have always seemed to break this pattern. To put a subject to sleep simply involves a reduction in electrical energy in certain areas of the brain, release of chemicals in others, it is a change in the natural, physical state of the brain. But to create a vision, by either nightmare or horror, we cannot describe a specific change in physical state that creates the vision, although we know how the body responds to it. Nor is it a controlled fluctuation in energy, either elemental or spiritual, although again both are involved in the response. Similarly, to heal a broken arm, or a laceration, is a matter of manipulating factors within the bone or the blood, using magical energy to fuel an acceleration in the bodies own healing. But to heal a broken mind? Again, the physical state is a response to the injury, not the injury itself. Therefore, what we can actually manipulate eludes us. We can soothe the adrenaline, reduce overstimulation of the limbic system, ease the symptoms for that particular episode, but true psychological healing, that has always been beyond us.”

“So far, I have yet to hear anything new,” Petrov sat back in his seat, tapping a gauntleted finger on her report. “Can I presume that this is not a pile of vellum telling us things we already know, Junior Enchanter?” Petrov never used a mage’s name in public, only their rank, not even Owen received other than a gruff “First Enchanter”. The truth was, he intimidated Evelyn, as he intimidated almost all the mages and most of the templars too. He was fair, never cruel and tolerated no abuses, but he firmly believed in maintaining the distance between mages and templars. Only once before had Evelyn stood before him and at that time she had been shaking in her shoes, holding desperately to every bit of Trevelyan dignity and after the meeting she had hidden in a grain barn and cried for hours. This time she was on firmer ground, they had come to her, and she wrapped that knowledge around herself, using it to straighten her backbone and firm her voice.

“I believe our understanding, our logic in fact, has been flawed. It is taken for granted that the vision is inflicted by the caster, either unknowingly by a mage or knowingly by a demon who is able to sense the weakness of a person as it relates to their nature. However, some of the older arcane writings suggest that the caster is merely changing processes in the brain on a far more subtle level and it is the subject whose mind creates the images in response to the electrical and chemical stimulus.”

“And how does that help us, Junior Enchanter? Whether the images are put into the mind or taken from it is irrelevant, what I want to know is…”

“With all due respect, Knight-Commander,” the other faces at the table stilled, no one interrupted Petrov, especially not a mage and a young one at that. Evelyn took a deep breath and plowed on before the man could stop her. “If the images themselves are internally dependent on the subject, then there may be ways to derail that response and reframe it in the longer term, using a combination of healing magic to restore biological balance and targeted discussion much like that used by the Chantry in the confessional. But instead of the subject purging their sin by confession and penance, they purge their trauma by confession and directed self-acceptance. I would very much like to continue to study this, particularly with respect to mages who struggle after their Harrowing but any trauma that results in nightmares would be valuable. I hesitate to suggest using Nightmare on test subjects, but…”

“Then don’t!” The objection came from Owen this time, the First Enchanter’s face like stone. Evelyn inclined her head and waited, the model of patience, until Owen nodded and dismissed her back to her duties.

When Evelyn had left the room, Owen looked around the table.

“Does anyone have any other suggestions?”

“I still think the boy should be brought here!” Arys banged her fist off the table, “Petrov, you should insist…”

“I can insist on nothing, Senior Enchanter. His Knight-Commander has made the choice, the boy will go to Kirkwall. Greagoir believes we are too lax in our treatment of mages and Meredith Stannard will be a better choice.” 

“Ha, what healing is there in Kirkwall? The Stannard woman was bad enough before, since Kinloch fell she’s getting worse.” Arys wrinkled her nose in disgust at the stories she had heard of Kirkwall’s Circle and its Knight-Commander.

“Regardless,” said Petrov, with a finality that brooked no argument. “Greagoir believes that structure and rules are what’s needed, and he knows the boy best. Every Circle in Thedas has offered help. We will send the girl’s research to both Irving and Orsino, perhaps they can make use of it in some way.”

With that the others made their way out the door, until only Owen and Petrov remained. As the door closed behind them, both men visibly relaxed and Petrov pulled off his gauntlets. Owen moved to pour brandy into two glasses and handed one to the Knight-Commander, who took it with a grateful sigh.

“For what it’s worth, I agree with Arys, Kirkwall is the worst place that young man could be sent, what is that idiot thinking?”

Owen snorted. “I suspect he was thinking that leniency got him a decimated Circle, and that Ostwick is a hotbed of seditious behaviour and lax thinking. After all, how many would truly have been surprised if it had been here, instead of Ferelden? People are already forgetting that the entire situation was created by Mac Tir to destabilise Ferelden while he took over, they will blame power-hungry mages before the great Hero of the Dane.”

“Of course, it was a power hungry mage that led it all.” Petrov raised an eyebrow at his friend.

“Yes, yes, which is why Circle’s exist, blah, blah, blah. But you know as well as I that rebellion doesn’t grow out of nothing. Our charges may never share duties, but the templars know who prepares their food, the mages know who lays their fires and dusts their books, there is a shared experience there. I hope you haven’t forgotten that, Petrov?”

“I haven’t forgotten. But Ferelden’s Circle was no Kirkwall either and look where it ended up. Anyway,” he said, throwing back the brandy in one gulp, “I must move, we don’t all sit about reading all day, some of us have work to do.”

Owen watched him leave and wondered if they would all come to regret sending Kinloch’s surviving templar into Meredith Stannard’s care.

\-----

When Kirkwall’s Chantry exploded, it took the rest of Thedas with it. The dissolution of the Circles left mages without the only home any of them had known. Some refused to leave, living in their sanctuaries, proclaiming themselves ‘loyal’, trying to pretend this was all a temporary madness. Others ran, scattering across countries, looking for acceptance and chasing any rumour of compatriots. Still others attempted to pass as non-mages, hiding what they were, never staying in one place too long for fear of being exposed. When the Templar Order abandoned the Chantry to hunt down the so-called apostates it became war, fear and long-standing hatred coalescing into a vicious tit-for-tat that left dead bodies rotting across the continent, even a rumour of magic a death sentence for some.

In Ostwick, mages and templars alike were given a choice. Stay at Castle Laedon, not as prisoners and jailers, but as partners, trying to find a way to end the war. Few stayed, fewer came from elsewhere, seeking refuge. Evelyn returned to her family for a time, intending to remain with them, watching her nieces and nephews grow. Maxwell came home also, desperate to hide from the things he had seen. Stationed in Starkhaven, he had been sent to Kirkwall to help their Champion and the new Knight-Commander, an attempt to salvage something from the wreckage in a city still in ruins from the Qunari massacre and stunned by the death and destruction rained down on them by a vengeful mage. But the noise and business of the Trevelyan home grated on their nerves. Evelyn longed for the library and those few of her friends who remained. Max needed a place in which to heal. So they said farewell and returned to the quiet valley together.

\-----

The invitation came to the First Enchanter. It lay on the empty desk, waiting for a man who had never returned from the College in Cumberland, killed by a simple fever on his way back to a home that, lawfully, no longer existed. There had been no attempt to elect a replacement, every few weeks someone would clear any letters that arrived, most of the world had forgotten the hidden valley and it’s commune of mages and templars. When it was finally discovered, there was no enthusiasm for attending a conclave halfway across the continent. Eventually, Ostwick’s Grand Cleric Louisa Trevelyan sent word that a representative of both mages and templars  _ would _ travel with her, and that she had chosen her nephew’s children Evelyn and Maxwell Trevelyan. Mother Louisa was determined to send a message at the Conclave and was making sure that Ostwick’s delegation would send that message. So the Trevelyan’s reluctantly left their sanctuary to travel to the village of Haven.


	2. The Herald of Andraste

In Ostwick, snow was a rarity. Ostwick was hot summers and wet winters, icy winds whipping from sea to mountains and back again, sleet soaking the heaviest cloaks and chilling through to the bone. Haven was covered in crisp, white snow that crunched underfoot, the calm air tingling her cheeks, bringing rosiness to caramel skin. As a child, she had dreamed of snow, imagining snowball fights and building snowmen, looking at paintings of white landscapes and wondering how it would feel, smell, taste. Now she was surrounded by it, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Every day Evelyn walks to the far edge of the frozen lake, staring across emptiness, far enough to block out the sights and sounds of the village, the bustle of messengers coming and going, the pilgrims on their way to the temple, or as near the temple as the new Inquisition’s soldiers will allow - burnt bodies and spires of red lyrium are a good incentive for keeping people at a distance. Every day the remains are gathered, most falling to ash as soon as touched, there are no names, no one is recognizable. The ashes are left on the mountaintop, given to the wind as priests intone the Chant day and night, commending those lost to the grace of the Maker. A shrine has been built for the pilgrims, on the plain before the temple, where soldiers bought time while a tiny group fought through the mountain passes to the temple itself, seeking desperately to seal the Breach before failing miserably.

She was told to think of it as a victory, the Breach and the glowing mark stabilised, allowing the search for a solution. But the gleaming snow is tinged with sickly green and it’s continued presence is felt in the increasing reports of rifts across southern Thedas and villages destroyed by demon incursions. How is this not a failure?

Yesterday, she met a templar. The young woman’s name is Lysette. She was at the Conclave, some at the peripheries have survived and have come to Haven. They came hoping to end a war and have landed right into another one. Evelyn wonders, if Max had been with them, in the Templars quarters, chatting with Lysette or one of the others, would he have survived? Would he be there, in the camps, training under the Commander whose motives she cannot trust? If she had been in the mages camp, would she have survived? Would she have been in that group in front of the Chantry, fighting each other, each blaming the other faction for the death of the Divine? Would she have stayed in Haven, become part of the Inquisition, or would she have sought out the rebel mages? Or would she have gone home? She’ll never know.

Soon, the War Council will convene. A stupid name, though one that sounds grand, implying far more than four people clutching at straws and hoping that she can save them. On the way back she collects herbs, notes deposits of ore, uses well aimed attacks to bring down game. The Quartermaster needs these things and if she returns with full arms no one questions the absences. There are herds of wild rams and druffalo in these hills, too large for her to drag back to Haven but she will encourage Threnn to send people to round them up. Every resource is needed. Evelyn interacts as little as possible with Threnn, the woman’s a troublemaker who reminds everyone of her undying support of the Traitor of Ostagar. Ferelden politics is unimportant to her, but manipulating the destruction of a Circle of Magi is unforgivable, even ten years on. Some of the herbs she takes directly to Adan, who teaches her to make potions with them, in thanks for retrieving garbled notes from an abandoned cottage. Otherwise, she walks through the village feeling like a ghost, no one meets her eyes, no one calls her name. When she passes they stare after her, muttering prayers to the Maker, telling each other of the Herald of Andraste who walked out of the Fade to save them all. But she doesn’t see, doesn’t hear, doesn’t care.

\-----

She respects Cassandra. The woman knows how to make hard choices. She doesn’t blame her for the suspicions, or the fact that she awoke in Haven chained and accused of destroying the Conclave. It was a solution that made far more sense than whatever is really happening here. After all, the war was started by a mage blowing up a Chantry. She’s an impressive fighter too, cutting down demons with as much ease as she cuts down the poor training dummies she mutilates. Cassandra almost burns with passion, filling those around her with energy. She should be the leader of the Inquisition, perhaps she still will be, but for the moment that choice has been deferred. 

By contrast, Leliana is cold. She can discuss draperies or assassination in the same tone of voice. Even in questioning her faith in the Maker, emotion is kept far below the surface, what little seeps through obviously considered an unforgivable weakness. Stories of the Blight mention the beautiful red-haired archer who fought beside King Alistair and Queen Rhiannon. The stories made her seem lively, romantic, almost playful, this Leliana is none of those things, she is an icy, calculating woman whose reach should not be underestimated.

Josephine isn’t cold, she’s warm, friendly and seems sweet, although no one becomes an ambassador without being an accomplished player of The Game. She listens to everyone carefully and her political acumen and connections benefit the Inquisition far more than all Leliana’s spies or the ever-growing army camped beside the lake. If Leliana is ice and Cassandra is fire then Josephine is the earth, soft beneath your feet, bringing beauty and sustenance, but capable of shaking the world to its foundation.

The Commander is lightning. Dangerous.

\-------

As time passes, the Inquisition grows. Evelyn travels from village to town, from region to region, moving between Ferelden and Orlais wherever she is sent to extend the Inquisition’s reach and influence. As she travels she recruits agents, encourages merchants and faces demons, rogue mages and templars, avvar, and rift after rift after rift. Most of the people she recruits she never thinks of again, some become frequently seen faces in Haven or across Thedas as she checks in for updates whenever she returns to a region. A few begin to become something more. The Iron Bull and his Chargers are not the only mercenary company working with the Inquisition, but they are the only ones she talks to, even drinks with in the camps. Varric lets his brusque exterior slip more and more when they speak, while Solas fascinates her with stories of the Fade, or spirits and of his dreams in ancient ruins. Sera and Vivienne could not be more different, but they both have a drive to right wrongs, to help those who cannot help themselves. She respects their actions, even if she doesn’t agree with them. Finally, the Grey Warden Blackwall, her newest recruit, a man who was teaching farmers to defend themselves and their homes when they met, whose determination to restore Warden history and search out artifacts she could absolutely understand.

Finally, she can’t put it off any longer. They need to approach the mages or the templars. The Commander, of course, advocates the templars while insisting he is no longer one of them. Leliana is firmly on the side of the mages. The other two have no strong feelings, so she is left to make the choice. Not that it was ever a choice - the templars rejected her on the very same day the mages approached her. The only person even close to an expert thinks more power is the key, not trying to suppress the Breach. And she wants to prove that mages, all mages, are not simply potential abominations and maleficars, that they can be heroes even without chainmail and bits of pointy metal. So she rounds up Varric, Cassandra and Vivienne for the journey to Redcliffe.


	3. A Tevinter Magister

From the first moment she met Dorian Pavus, Evelyn was entranced. He was beautiful, witty, intelligent. He seemed to have no fear of himself or his magic and his confidence inspired her, pushing her to be more daring, more aggressive, exploring her magic in new ways. In the few days since their meeting, when he had flippantly indicated the rift in the middle of Redcliffe Chantry and instructed her to “close that, would you?” she had become completely infatuated with the Tevinter mage.

It helped that he had put the Commander firmly in his place at their first meeting, that he had thoroughly charmed Josephine and managed to make Leliana smile at least once with his deliberately flamboyant comments and blatant flirting. Dorian flirted with everyone; from the sweet girl who helped Flissa behind the bar to grumpy Harritt who was persuaded to allow Dorian time to tinker with his staff himself after the damage it took in Redcliffe. And the fact that she happened to be passing the smithy to see him stripped to the waist, pounding the heated metal of his staff blade, covered in sweat and ash, sealed her fate and promised to provide fuel for many pleasant dreams in the future.

Not that she had any intention of letting him know it, any more than she wanted the Commander to know she detested him, or Vivienne to know she thought her ideas on reinstating the Circle naive and poorly judged. She had to present a friendly face, a charming neutrality that kept everyone on side to counter the hostility of Chancellor Roderick and his cronies as well as the scepticism at an apostate mage being the Herald of Andraste. She didn’t believe for a second that she was Andraste’s Chosen but feeding that belief strengthened both her position and the influence of the Inquisition so she demurred from direct questions with quiet modesty and an air of mystery that suggested something more and kept even her advisors and new allies at arms length. When in Haven, on her way to her quiet spot beside the lake each day, she would work her way around a couple of people, chatting to them, asking questions, finding out about their background and circumspectly sharing a little of hers, just enough to build trust and help them open up to her. As it had in the Circle, and in the Ostwick court even earlier, Evelyn’s survival depended on knowing as much and making sure others knew as little as possible.

\-----

“So, do tell, what  _ is _ your problem with our handsome, if taciturn, Commander?” Evelyn sat cross legged on Dorian’s bed while he sat at a desk near the window of his cabin, both poring over scrolls that had been liberated from the Venatori in Redcliffe, trying to glean as much information as possible before the inevitable interrogation of Gereon Alexius. She didn’t bother looking up to answer.

“I don’t have a problem with the Commander, we have a perfectly civil working relationship.”

“That would be much more convincing if you ever brought yourself to use the man’s name. I understand he was one of your Southern templars, an unsavoury bunch from what I’ve heard, but he seems a decent enough sort. Very easy on the eyes too, although not in our league of course.” That was said with a flamboyant wave of the hand and an arch smile as she looked up, making her laugh as he had intended. “Perhaps that’s it, you’re so stunned by his good looks you have to distance yourself to avoid a torrid affair. I highly recommend giving in to nature, darling. Commander Cullen certainly looks like someone possessed of plenty of stamina, even if you would have to provide the imagination.”

He was surprised when she twisted her face and made a gagging noise in the back of her throat. He turned back to his work, muttering about terrible penmanship and tried to ignore the increasingly agitated rustling behind him. Evelyn Trevelyan had barely raised an eyebrow when she found him fighting demons in the Chantry, had muttered a few curses before getting down to business in the horrifically dystopian future they had been dumped in and had managed to face the irate King of Ferelden without so much as a fidget, but a meeting with the Commander this morning to discuss integrating the mages into his plans had ended with her stalking off to destroy training dummies in a way that impressed even Cassandra. From the second they met, Dorian had been struck by her intense focus, her calm acceptance of the most diverse allies and her ability to absorb new information and act on it immediately, without turning a hair at the most outlandish occurrences - such as time travel. Startlingly beautiful, graceful, confident - she reminded him so much of Mae - and able to work with anyone from a boorish Grey Warden to a Qunari Ben-Hassrath, or even a Tevinter mage. Except for one ex-templar.

Apart from their initial argument, which Dorian admitted was only justified scepticism on Rutherford’s part, he had found the Commander a pleasant enough man who was devoted to the Inquisition and his men. And certainly rugged enough for Dorian’s tastes with exotically pale hair and skin that turned bright red at the mildest innuendoes. He seemed to get along with everyone else, especially with Cassandra and the other advisors, but it was obvious that the Herald of Andraste had a major problem with the leader of her armies. There was a mystery there and Dorian loved a good mystery.

However, he dropped the subject for that day and the days that followed were filled with preparations for the assault on the Breach. None of them slept well and Dorian spent hours with Evelyn poring over all the Venatori writings he could find, discussing the nature of the rifts with Solas and working with Vivienne and Cullen to incorporate mages into units of soldiers as ranged support or field healers, something that was fairly standard in Tevinter but almost unheard of in the South. Finally, everything was in place, they would move the next day, every conceivable outcome had a contingency plan except one. It was almost midnight, the army moved at dawn, and no one could find the blasted Herald.

Evelyn was supposed to meet the rest of the Inner Circle in the War Room for a last review of their plans for the next day. In many ways it was a repeat of the last time they had tried to seal the Breach, the army moving across the plains to intercept any demons or Venatori although the priests still stationed at the Temple insisted there had been no sight of any threats. The Herald and all of the available mages, including Dorian, Vivienne, Solas and Fiona, would enter with some soldiers and the rest of the Inner Circle in support. In the event the attempt failed their priority would be to get Evelyn out since she was the only one who could close the rifts. Typically, Evelyn was not in favour of that part of the plan.

When she didn’t appear, Leliana sent a messenger to her cabin, who returned to say there was no sign of the Herald at the cabin or the tavern and no one she had asked had seen her all afternoon. They spread out to look for her, hoping to keep her disappearance quiet as long as possible. As he searched along the edge of the lake, her favourite daytime haunt, Dorian wondered if all their planning was about to go to waste, if someone had destroyed their one hope just as everything finally seemed to be going their way. In the last week she had somehow become as essential to him as breathing and a sick feeling filled his stomach as his mind was full of images of Evelyn’s broken body waiting to be discovered. As he worked his way back round to Haven he started praying, the Chant falling from his lips as his mind begged the Maker that this was all a bad dream, barely noticing the old healers cabin until he realised there was a light in the window and he could hear voices, one voice in particular, Evelyn.

\-----

Cullen watched Dorian and Evelyn walking along the distant path, obviously arguing, with a sick sense of relief. The Tevinter had found her, alive and apparently well enough to warrant being harangued with wild gesticulation to make his point. The Herald appeared to answer back just as vehemently, her passion when speaking to Dorian again contrasting sharply with the calm, contained way she dealt with everyone else - especially Cullen himself. He couldn’t blame her, many of the mages were sceptical of him, many blamed him as much as Anders or Meredith for the mess that Kirkwall had become, for the beginning of the mage-templar war. Of the three, he was the only one left alive, and truthfully, he blamed himself more than any mage could. He could never atone for Kirkwall and all the things he had ignored, covered up or rationalised away, the fact the Herald could be civil for the sake of the Inquisition was all he could hope for, forgiveness an impossibility he would never ask for.

He had sent a runner to let the others know as soon as he had seen them, intending to go straight to the Chantry himself, but instead he just stood there, watching the two mages walking along, heads unbowed, uncaring whether anyone saw or heard them, unconcerned with appearances, completely at ease in themselves, if not currently with each other. They made a striking pair, a striking couple if the rumours were to be believed, both perfect physical specimens with intelligence and talent to match. They were what mages should always have been allowed to be, what he hoped this alliance might make them in future, now the shock of it had worn off somewhat.

She looked so much like Maxwell; colouring, mannerisms, the same lilting accents. Max had come to Kirkwall after everything had happened, one of a contingent of Marcher templars sent to straighten out Meredith’s mess. Cullen’s mess. When Cullen left with Cassandra, Max was heading back to Ostwick, concerned with how his sister had managed the dissolution of the Circles. A brief letter to say he would be part of the Conclave delegation was all he had heard from the man since. His death had been a blow, a small one in the scheme of things, but Max had been pleasant and had worked hard to restore Kirkwall. Of the templars who had come, he was the only one who bothered to take the time to speak to Cullen beyond the absolutely necessary, the rest avoided Stannard’s second like the Blight. As many templars as mages blamed him for Kirkwall, for the war, for everything. Max Trevelyan had almost been a friend, the first in years, and now he was gone and Cullen couldn’t blame Evelyn for hating him for his part in her brothers’ death.

When they were close enough Evelyn waved Dorian into silence and looked at Cullen.

“Commander.” She inclined her head, almost daring him to comment on her absence.

“Herald,” he had no wish to be at odds with her, especially since he could see she looked pale and tired and although her hands were clean her clothes were covered with blood. “I have sent word of your return, if you wish to retire to your cabin I’ll have warm water and some food sent directly?”

She nodded, thanking him briefly and completely ignoring Dorian before striding off towards the gates. The two men watched her go in silence, waiting until she was out of sight before Dorian turned to Cullen to say, “Drink?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea when there are only about four hours left before we move. Bed seems far more sensible?” He cursed himself for the obvious opening.

Dorian smirked at him. “What an appealing offer, Commander?” The man made everything sound like an innuendo and Cullen couldn’t help feeling his cheeks flush a little. It would be worrying how quickly he had knocked down Cullen’s defences with his charm, but even Leliana believed Dorian could be trusted, for the moment. Before he could think of a response Dorian had returned to frowning after their errant Herald.

“So where was she?” He asked. Covered in blood, with no apparent injuries and Dorian mad at her, where could she have been till two hours past midnight the night before she was to close the Breach? Evelyn was many things, but irresponsible was not one of them. In the weeks since she walked out of the Fade she had risked herself time and again for their mission.

Dorian snorted. “She was playing midwife, if you can believe it?”

“What?”

“Some urchin found her in the woods, the mother was in labour ahead of time and the boy and his father were trying to get to Haven for a healer. Refugees, apparently, from one of those tiny hamlets in the Hinterlands. They hoped to get to Haven and beg sanctuary. The man’s a farrier apparently, thought he might be of use.”

“So why didn’t she send one of them for Adan, or one of the other healers?”

“Exactly what I said. The woman was bleeding when she got there. The boy’s only three and she needed the man to help her, she had no one to send. They made it to that cabin and that was it.”

“How are they?”

“Mother and bouncing baby girl both doing well. For a month early. Vela says she’s doing well, anyway. Not really my area of expertise, women and birth and … well…” He trailed off in that vaguely uncomfortable way of a man discussing female mysteries. Cullen sympathised, feeling much less at ease with the blood covering Evelyn now he knew it hadn’t come from battle, but from … well…

“Anyway, Commander, you don’t look like a man who plans to sleep soon. And I need a drink.” It was a bad idea, but Cullen allowed the charismatic mage to drag him to the tavern, although he nursed one tankard of ale while listening to Dorian rambling on in the thoughtlessly arrogant way he had, complaining about the wine and adding his smooth, rich baritone when the minstrel played a song he knew, although he sang in Tevene rather than Trade. When the guard rang the fourth bell he insisted on accompanying the mage back to his cabin before returning to his tent in a futile attempt to rest before the dawn came and the campaign began.

\-------

The plan was executed flawlessly, the temple completely devoid of Venatori or demons when Evelyn focused the Mark and the power of almost eighty mages into the Breach and sealed it. Months of work over within minutes, time for celebration.

Evelyn watched the bonfires surrounded by people singing, dancing, eating and drinking themselves into a stupor. Adan had brought the family from the cabin to the village and she could see the little boy, Simon, stuffing his face with a pastry while Eric, his father, came over to thank the Herald for saving his wife and daughter. She accepted his thanks graciously, promising to visit Mara and baby Agatha the next day. Then she wandered through the masses, accepting more thanks, from all directions, taking note of each advisor and ally, making sure to thank them each in turn, even the Commander for without his tactical expertise none of them would have been alive long enough to seal the Breach. Thus, she was already nearing the gates when the screams and the shouting began.

\-----

Every time she returned to Skyhold it had changed, walls filled, debris cleared, more nobles infesting the place, hoping for favour. But no matter what changed, she knew exactly where to find every one of her allies, the people who were fast becoming her friends, in spite of her best efforts to stay aloof. When on a mission, Dorian, Cassandra and Cole were her most constant companions and while the others had each found a place in her heart, everyone knew those three were her dearest friends.

So how Mother Giselle thought for a second she wouldn’t run straight to Dorian with the letter, she would never know. She had put the woman in her place several times, their initial friendliness souring with her open bias against Evelyn’s choice of companions, particularly the Tevinter mage. Although The Iron Bull came a close second in her dire warnings. It was no secret they both enjoyed no strings attached sex and no secret that many in Skyhold disapproved, including Mother Giselle. She cursed at her thoughts, too easily distracted because she didn’t want to think about the contents of the letter, about the possibility that Dorian might chose his family and his home over her. If she could, she would be back with her family in a heartbeat, to be home, where she belonged, instead of trying to navigate the nightmare the world had become. Dorian wasn’t held there by a cursed mark, he suffered everything from suspicious looks to cruel rumours to blatant insults and she adored him for his ability to rise above it when just seeing it made her want to burn people to ash on his behalf. If he wanted to reconcile with his family, she would move mountains to make it happen, even if she lost him forever.

Three days later, they were on the road to Redcliffe. Her advisors had thrown a fit when she informed them she would be returning to the village with only Dorian. After almost two hours of arguing they had agreed, mainly because she had pulled rank and overruled them. So they rode along the West Road, chatting lightly about everything but why they were there, enjoying the brief sense of freedom. It was reassuring to see how much of the Hinterlands was being rebuilt and repopulated and the day was warm enough that Dorian wasn’t even complaining about the cold. Part of her wished they would never come to the end of the journey, not only because she might be saying goodbye to Dorian, but because today they were just friends on a journey, seeing the sights, no weight of the world, no demons and fade rifts, as if they were two normal people.

It didn’t last. The Gull and Lantern was empty when they arrived, not even the innkeeper in sight. She could feel the tingle as they both pulled mana, preparing for a trap, a tingle that abruptly increased when a man appeared on the stairs and Dorian tensed, ready for a fight.

“Father.”

Halward Pavus stood before them, impassive yet immediately appraising his son, and herself, and evidently finding them both wanting.

“What is this exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?” He almost dripped venom as he stared at his father, not losing hold of his power for a second. Evelyn knew they weren’t on the best of terms but this? She had never seen Dorian so vicious, so aggressive. She ramped up her power, loosening the staff on her back, ready to back him up in whatever way he needed.

Halward sighed, “This is how it has always been.” He looked at her, as if appealing for assistance but she had no inclination to give him any. It was on the tip of her tongue to say they were leaving, to take Dorian away from this person she instinctively didn’t trust at all, who was appealing to her as if they were adults contriving to settle a fractious toddler. But watching Dorian she saw something new - pain, and vulnerability. He needed something from this meeting, and if she dragged him away, he might never have another opportunity to get it.

“You went through all of this to get Dorian here. Talk to him.”

“Yes Father, talk to me. Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger.” He turned to her, head tilted and eyes dropped as Pavus muttered something in the background. “I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”

Everything stopped for a second as she tried to take in what she had heard. The company of men? What did he mean by - oh. She looked across at Dorian’s father, then back to Dorian. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, then… she couldn’t help it. An incredulous snort forced its way out, turning into laughter as both men looked at her and frowned.

“That’s what this is about? Who you sleep with? That’s a big concern in Tevinter is it?” She giggled, but stopped when she took in Dorian’s hurt expression, as if she was laughing at him.

“It is if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard.” She couldn’t grasp it, the idea of breeding perfection, treating people like racehorses or prize hounds, culling undesirable traits. It was hardly an unknown concept, all nobility did it to a certain extent but in Tevinter it sounded like it had become an obsession, men and women worth nothing for themselves, only for the offspring they might produce. She felt sick, thinking of Dorian being forced to abandon himself, his own rare perfection, to be sacrificed on the altar of vanity that Tevinter had become. Then his last few words penetrated her growing anger.

“You tried to change me!” Dorian,  _ her  _ Dorian, her confident, handsome, powerful friend sounded like a betrayed child and her heart broke. His father’s words were the last straw.

“I only wanted what was best for you.”

“How dare you!” Pavus turned to face her as she stalked closer. “How dare you stand in front of him and say such things. How dare you lie to your son and tell him this was anything to do with what is best for him.” Dorian stood behind her, mouth agape at the low, contemptuous tone she used while his father started to back away. She could barely think for the rage, everything but the fact that this man before her had tried to use blood magic on his own son, had risked everything he was and is, to become a breeding  _ stud _ , farmed out to whatever noble mare would provide the best bloodline.

“If you had a child…” The blast of magic pushed him against the wall, knocking the breath out of him, stopping that sentence. Dorian gasped, taking a half-step towards her but she waved him back. She let go of her mana and stood straight, looking directly at the man before her, ice cold fury replacing temper as she chose her words carefully.

“I have children, two of them, and I lied, cheated, blackmailed and whored myself to make sure they went to my family instead of being raised as orphans by the Chantry. Every time I see them I want to hold them and tell them they’re mine and every time they call me Aunt and show me what Father or Mother taught them my heart breaks. I never saw their first steps, heard their first words, I’m the funny Auntie who does magic tricks for them, someone they see once every couple of years, and I would move the entire world for them, even though they will never know it. Don’t tell me what I would do for my child! I would do anything for them! But I would  _ never _ do anything  _ to _ them! I would never try to change anything they are, I would never betray them! You don’t know what being a parent even is, you disgusting, deviant, perverted, maleficar bastard!” She took one more look, lip curled in contempt at the stunned man before her, before she turned to Dorian. He looked at her as if he had never seen her before and it stung. Before he could say anything she walked towards the door.

“It’s your choice, Dorian. Talk to him, or don’t. I’ll wait as long as you need.” Then she walked out of the tavern.

\---------

She knew he was watching her but she ignored him, sitting on the edge of the low dock, dangling her feet above the water as she looked across the placid lake, trying to draw in some of its calm serenity. If she didn’t look over, he couldn’t see the tear marks streaked down her cheeks. She felt like shit, worn out and headachey from the adrenaline and the crying. She had let him down, lost her temper, screamed at his father and then deserted him to deal with the aftermath himself. There were no words to express what a selfish bitch she was.

He sat down beside her, longer legs almost reaching the water that lapped gently below them, and wrapped his arm around her, drawing her head down onto his shoulder. They sat there for a while, not saying anything, just leaning into each other, until she drew in a breath and whispered, “I’m sorry.” He laughed quietly, that deep, rich, soft laugh that always warmed her, the one she wished was hers alone.

“I should be the one apologising, I should have told you everything before we went in there, I just…” he trailed off, hesitantly and she looked up from his shoulder to see him gazing down at her, a worried look in his eyes. “I should have told you a lot of things from the start, but…”

“Shhh.” she said, placing a finger on his lips, “You’re not obliged to tell me anything you don’t want to. Unless of course it’s to do with Corypheus, or the rifts, the templars, anything like that.” She sat up straight so she could look him directly in the eye. “You are your own person, Dorian, and I love you. You tell me what you want to tell me, don’t tell me if you don’t want to, don’t feel obliged to me, that’s not what friends are to each other. I am sorry I exploded at your father, and I’m sorry I left you to deal with it yourself, but I’m not sorry about what I said to him.”

“Ha, I’m not sorry about that, either.” The sly smirk was returning to his face. “And don’t think I don’t know that you chose those words specifically - I’ve heard them pointed at me all my adult life, I think he was utterly stunned to hear them thrown back at him.” He leaned in and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. “That’s not what I should be apologising about. I… I’m sorry if you feel I led you on? I should have…”

“Completely changed your entire personality?” she laughed, “Isn’t that exactly what this whole thing was about? Dorian, I know you’re a flirt, you know I’m a flirt. Yes, I find you attractive, extremely attractive, don’t let it go to your head. If there was a list of everything I’ve ever looked for in a man, you would tick every box but one, and frankly I would fuck you in a second, right here, right now, people wouldn’t even be scandalised, they’d just be really, really jealous. But I love you. You! Not some version of you that suits me. So while I think it’s extremely selfish of you not to make an exception to your sexual preferences solely for my benefit, I will not have you apologising because your arsehole father convinced you there’s something wrong with you. Shit, I really, really want to go back there and kill him. Want to?” 

“As much as I would love to, I think we might regret it later, darling.” They leaned into each other, foreheads touching, eyes closed, each absorbing the others warmth. “For what it’s worth, if I could make an exception, it would only be for you.” 

She sat up straight and smiled at him, looking through her lashes with coy innocence that didn’t fool Dorian for a second. “You know,” she said, mischievously, “We didn’t give my advisors any idea when we would return. Fancy getting a room in the inn and getting stinking drunk?”

“One room?” he said, tilting an eyebrow at her.

“We can get two if you want, but I thought the getting drunk could involve talking shite and eating the chocolates I might have stolen from Josephine’s last delivery until we fall into a drunken, sugary stupor. You can always sleep on the floor if you fear for your virtue, serrah!” That got another laugh and an affectionate squeeze before Dorian jumped up and hauled her to her feet.

“I might chance my fragile virtue for some of Josephine’s chocolates. Lead on, my dear Inquisitor, if it involves chocolate and wine I am your loyal slave.”

They had a lot to talk about, but whether it happened now or later Evelyn didn’t care. Seeing a smile back on Dorian’s face was more than worth a hangover and facing an irate Ambassador over some missing chocolates. They walked back to the inn arm in arm, closer than ever and if Evelyn regretted what she couldn’t have, she would never let Dorian know it. He was perfect as he was and if necessary she would spend the rest of her life proving that to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being with Dorian is about the only reason I would play a male Inquisitor, I rarely play male characters. I honestly believe my Inquisitor would be head over heels in love with him, but I had no intention of making Dorian bi, not even for my Vela. Besides, Cullrian is my OTP, anyone else may be invited to play but those two are made for each other.


	4. Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - depression, grief, bereavement and suicidal ideation.

From the walkway around the rookery you could see most of Skyhold. The training yards, the merchants courtyard and, of course, the great gates. One of the things you couldn't see was the Chantry garden, enclosed by cloisters in the warmest, sunniest corner of the castle, or the gazebo at its farthest edge. And yet, Leliana mused, at the same hour every day the Inquisitor stood in that exact spot, staring as if she could see through walls to the two men who sat there. 

As long as they could work together Leliana was uninterested in Evelyn's antipathy for Cullen. While they prepared for the masquerade at Halamshiral the two were rarely in each others company anyway. The Commander had excused himself from any meetings involving Orlesian politics, fully intending to do nothing but stand still and look unapproachable. Leliana and Josephine had decided that the man had no idea how provocative the Orlesian court would find that and looked forward to seeing how he would react to the inevitable flocks of admirers vying for a response from the handsome warrior. Since it would provide an amusing distraction from whatever the Inquisitor might need to do, they decided not to enlighten him, merely to stand back and enjoy the show. 

So Leliana had not intended any interference between their Inquisitor and their Commander - as long as the Inquisition was unaffected. But lately she was less and less sure. Now, watching Evelyn glare at the unseen gazebo, she calculated the advantages of interfering in the absurd competition that had developed over, of all things, Dorian Pavus. A competition which neither Dorian nor Cullen seemed to be aware of.

The next day Leliana and Josephine kept Evelyn and Cullen discussing plans right up until lunchtime, going over everything again and again under the guise of being ready for their departure in three days time. Finally they let Cullen extricate himself and head for his daily game of chess, keeping Evelyn in the war room just a little longer, before Leliana nodded slightly to Josephine to begin. 

“My dear Lady Trevelyan,” said Josie, innocently, “You look exhausted, you cannot have such dark circles under your eyes when we go to the Winter Palace, think how people will talk?”

Evelyn smiled wanly. “I am exhausted, but I don’t see that changing before we get to Halamshiral, even if it will take us a week with all the baggage we’re carting.” Even sending most of their luggage ahead with the servants who would prepare for their arrival, there was enough that had to go with them, gifts and suchlike, that they would be much slower than the Inquisitor was used to travelling. 

“For this afternoon at least, I think we should relax ladies,” said Leliana. “Josie, I know that shipment from Antiva included several boxes of chocolates. I suggest we liberate a box and some wine and have an afternoon off? Besides, if the Commander can relax for an hour, I think we deserve at least from lunch till supper.” Her tinkling laugh covered Evelyn’s snort at the mention of Cullen while Josephine started debating where best they could go to avoid being disturbed, since her office and the rookery were both dismissed out of hand. Evelyn watched them suspiciously at first before getting caught up in their enthusiasm.

“We can go to my room, it’s so far out the way no one comes up unless it’s life and death anyway. Josie, bring the chocolates, Leliana, you’re on the wine, I’ll nab us some actual lunch, unless you think it’s a good idea for us all to be drunk in the middle of the day?”

Josephine giggled, “I’m sure the gentlemen would cover for us.” The idea of the Commander having to deal with nobles and dignitaries while the three of them spent the afternoon getting drunk appealed to Evelyn’s sense of humour and she sniggered. Of course, Dorian would probably just deal with everything for him with his usual flare, solving every problem as easily as Josephine herself would manage. She felt the ridiculous jealousy building up and squashed it, heading to the kitchens for enough food to soak up several bottles of wine, but nothing sweet so they would appreciate the rare chocolates, probably bought as guesting gifts for Celene, Florianne and Gaspard, even more.

Two hours and a copious amount of food and wine later Evelyn was finally willing to admit she knew why the other women had set this up.

“So how much of an idiot am I?” she asked her friends. They looked at each other uneasily, not sure quite what to say. 

“Not an idiot, my dear,” said Leliana, “But we wondered if you would appreciate talking to someone.”

“And with the dance so soon, and the situation with Corypheus escalating, well…” Josephine trailed off as Evelyn looked between the two of them. For a moment she wanted to change the subject, refuse to talk about it, but she had been doing that for weeks now and it wasn’t helping. The time was coming when it might even hinder her from the work she - they - were needed to do.

“I can’t stand him.” She was embarrassed to admit it. “I’ve watched him and he isn’t what I thought he was, but I just can’t… I can’t stop blaming him.”

“Cullen wasn’t responsible for the war, Evelyn.” Leliana’s gentle tone felt like a knife in her guts, she knew she wasn’t being fair. “He wasn’t responsible for what happened in Kirkwall. There’s so much you don’t know.”

“He was Stannard’s second, he carried out her orders, supported her tyranny,”

“He stood against her when it mattered,” murmured Josephine.

“He stood against her when it was too late!” Every time, every single time she thought about it, she could feel tears running down her cheeks as she spoke. “He stood against her when Kirkwall was already in ruins, and then my brother had to help put everything back together." Max had told her about him, how he tried to help, tried to make up for it. The other Templars hadn’t given him the time of day, it was too little too late, but Max was always a soft touch. 

“Meredith, Cullen, Anders, Orsino. If it hadn’t been for those four the war might never have happened, the Conclave wouldn’t have happened. My brother wouldn’t be dead, vapourised at the centre of a crater, along with my great-aunt, two of my cousins and…” She stopped.

“And the father of your children.” Leliana said softly. Josephine gasped.

“And the father of my children.” Evelyn repeated the words. Said them aloud for the first time. She hadn’t even told Dorian. At Redcliffe she had told him about Ariana and Aiden, about facing down the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander not once but twice, about using every connection, favour and bit of influence she had to allow Stefan and Faith to raise them. She had told him about blackmailing a Templar into confessing to seducing her when she had fallen pregnant at 15, about agreeing to an ‘exchange of favours’ with the Teyrn to secure Ariana’s place and again four years later for Aiden’s sake. She hadn’t told him about Killian, had let him assume her children were the result of illicit trysts rather than talk about the other member of her family who had died the day she walked out of the Fade.

“I blame him, I know I shouldn’t but I do. Following orders isn’t good enough, it isn’t an excuse. He took my brother, and my love and now he’s taking Dorian from me and saying it out loud it sounds even more stupid than it does in my head.” She looked away from their pitying gazes, embarrassed by her childishness.

Josephine put her glass down on the table, slightly more firmly than she might have done had she been completely sober.

“I don’t understand? Dorian? Dorian is devoted to you, you are an adorable pair, you think Cullen is trying to, to steal Dorian? I know you don’t like him, Evelyn, but he is an honourable man, as is Dorian.”

Evelyn and Leliana looked at Josephine, then each other, before bursting out laughing, at which the Antivan woman looked rather offended. “Josie, sweetie,” Evelyn said, “Dorian and I aren’t together.” She giggled. “I don’t quite have what he’s looking for.” Josephine’s blank look just made the other two laugh even more, especially as the penny dropped and Josephine took a long draught of her wine.

“Really, Dorian? I thought he was enamoured of you, darling Evelyn? And Cullen? Hmm, what an interesting idea." The humour soured in Evelyn's stomach and she slumped back into the soft cushions while she glared into her wine. The whole situation was ridiculous. Dorian wasn't hers. And as far as Dorian knew, Cullen was only interested in women, ignoring all but the most blatant flirting. And truly, Evelyn didn't want a relationship. She had loved one man since she was 14 years old, she could never replace Killian, she didn't want to. And if she needed an itch scratched, The Iron Bull was always happy to oblige. Sex meant less than nothing, a physical need like eating or sleeping, nothing to be dramatic over. And she didn't grudge Dorian an hour playing chess with a friend. None of it justified her unreasonable jealousy. But jealous she was. Jealous of the easy way Dorian made friends from people predisposed to dislike him, the way everyone forgave Cullen because he was 'trying' to atone. Mainly, she was jealous of the fact that the two people she had loved most, who she had spent hours playing chess with, laughing and talking with, were ash on top of a mountain while someone she disliked and blamed for them being there played chess with the only person who had helped fill that empty space a little. 

She had no idea how to explain that to anyone. When she said it aloud it was absurd. The war was the result of generations of abuses, brought to a head by the insanity of the Knight-Commander in a city overflowing with corruption. The explosion at the Conclave was an ancient magister turned darkspawn trying to open the way into the Fade. Neither of those facts was anything to do with Cullen Rutherford.

The truth was, Evelyn and Killian had persuaded Max to look for Cullen before the Conclave started. They had been working their way through the most likely places when Evelyn opened the wrong door at the wrong time. Maxwell and Killian died because Evelyn, always the ringleader, persuaded them to leave the barracks, where Lysette and others had survived, to hunt for a man who wasn't even there, all because Max had a crush. She blamed Cullen, because the only other person she could blame, the real reason they were dead, was herself. She had killed them and even saving the world would never atone for that betrayal.

\-----

Evelyn rapped sharply on the door before breezing in. She would never usually have considered just walking into anyone’s room, but she was very, very drunk. Dorian was curled up in an armchair beside the fire, blankets wrapped round him, book in one hand, glass in the other, watching her approach. She walked over to him and took the glass from his hand and drained it, then refilled it from the bottle beside him and drained it again before throwing herself down on the rug in front of the fire. He still hadn’t said a word, just looked at her, no judgement, only questions in his eyes.

“I’m drunk,” she announced.

“I see that,” he replied, mildly. He could sense a storm brewing. Evelyn had been hiding things from him, had been distant and restrained for a while now, at least when they were in Skyhold. He thought he knew what the problem was and couldn’t help feeling a sense of betrayal and resentment, she knew what he could offer her and what he couldn’t, he knew she was jealous, and jealous of a man who saw him only as a chess partner while staring like a moon calf in Evelyn’s direction at every opportunity. How he had ended up part of a love triangle where none of the feelings in any direction were reciprocated he had no idea, but it grated on him, it hurt him, and it would only get worse as they left for courtly games and a masquerade, the three of them in close quarters without any buffer, with no buffer even possible lest the Orlesians scent blood in the water. Dorian wasn’t a patient man but he could play the Game, as could Evelyn, except where the Commander was concerned. And for the next month everywhere they went, the three of them would be together. If it wasn’t fixed before they left, it would be a disaster for the Inquisition. So, as much as he wanted to indulge in sarcasm, to rail at Evelyn for putting him in the middle of her vendetta, for the Inquisition he bit his tongue and waited to see what would come next.

She stood up, too restless to sit still, dismissing the bottle beside Dorian, knowing she had already emptied it, she walked over to where he hid his stash, the pile of both full and empty showing just how much he had been drinking since facing his father at Redcliffe. She didn’t comment, just pulled out another bottle and drew out the cork with magic before handing it to him and opening one for herself.

“Glasses break.”

She didn’t slur, or stagger. If anything it was the poker straight back and carefully enunciated syllables that gave her away. Evelyn Trevelyan would never hang around someone’s neck, or stagger off to be sick in the bushes, she would be drummed out of the Trevelyan family for anything less than total dignity, even when completely out her face. For a moment Dorian was terrified. For a moment he was convinced that Evelyn was dead, that Corypheus had got to her, that this woman in front of him was no more than an apparition and all their hopes, their chance at survival, and more importantly his beautiful, wonderful friend, were gone in an instant. Then he blinked, and before him stood no ghost, only a weary and heartsick woman, who hung her head as she stared into the fire, seeing who knew what in the flames.

“Did you know I’m married?” He watched her, not fully understanding the question, as she turned around and looked at him with a kind of sick mirth on her face.

“Well, I say married. Mages can’t marry, not at all and especially not to Templars. But we stood in the Chantry and said our vows to Andraste and the Maker. Only two other people were there when we did it, but we knew we were married.” She turned back to the flames and Dorian stayed silent, afraid to break this spell with an ill-timed question.

“Except I’m not. I’m a widow. My children are half orphans, not that they ever met their father, not that they even know I’m their mother. But I know. And do you know why I’m a widow, Dorian?”

He didn’t dare speak, not now. But he thought he might be beginning to understand.

“I’m a widow because someone blew up a Chantry and started a war, and someone started that war because of all the abuse that had been heaped on mages, for years really, but especially by an insane tyrant and a second-in-command who refused to question her orders. So I, and my brother, were ordered to travel to a Conclave to try to resolve that war, and my husband manoeuvred his way onto the delegation to be with me. And my brother had a massive crush on someone who was supposed to be at the Conclave, that mindless drone of a second-in-command who had tried to make up for everything after the fact and somehow wormed his way into Max’s affections.

“So what did I do? Did I tell him to leave it? Did I tell him to forget the worm of a Captain, to find someone who was actually worthy of him? Nope. I went to their barracks, I dragged Max and Killian away and I persuaded them to go hunting for that man, the one my brother was so starry-eyed for. The man who wasn’t even there. So they weren’t with Lysette and the other templars when Corypheus blew up the Conclave. Can you imagine? They would have joined the Inquisition, fought against Corypheus. Max would have met that Captain and maybe there would have been something there, or he might have met an amazingly handsome mage and fallen head over heels in love with him, or he might have done a million things. But he won’t, he can’t. And I came here hoping for a solution so Killian and I could acknowledge our marriage, so we could claim our children and live in peace. So my daughter, who manifested her powers six months after the dissolution of the Circles, could live with and be trained by her parents, in love, not in a prison. And that will never happen either, because he’s dead. They’re both ash at the top of that mountain and it’s my fault. It’s always been my fault. And I wish I was there with them.”

Dorian sat, frozen into silence. Whatever he expected when she barged into his room, this wasn’t it. Tears ran down her cheeks, but he couldn’t move to give her comfort, could only watch as she drank down the rest of the wine directly from the bottle, as she told him the rest of the story she had started in Redcliffe. Finally, she turned to look at him.

“I’m so tired, Dorian. I’m so tired of fighting, I tired of hating Cullen because my brother fell in love with him, because he was the reason we were ever near that room. I’m tired of listening to everyone calling me by titles that I only got because they’re dead. I’m so tired of living without him, not hearing his voice, not feeling his arms around me. I’m so tired of being the one who survived. I don’t want to save the world. I just want to be dead.”

That one word broke Dorian. Gently, without a word, he rose and pulled her into his arms, the feeling of skin on skin breaking a dam within her, great, gulping sobs pouring out of her and they sank together onto the rug. He held her until the storm passed and she fell into a restless sleep, then lifted her easily and laid her on his bed, curling around her as if he could protect her from the empty, cruel world, soothing her hair and back with gentle caresses until he too fell asleep.

\-----

She woke to an empty room, windows open to let in sunshine and fresh air, both of which immediately reminded her of the uncounted bottles of wine she had poured down her throat yesterday. She managed to find the restorative potion Dorian always had handy after a night of drinking and that cleared her mind enough so she could muster the focus to cast a healing spell. Unfortunately the absence of hangover made the smell of wine seeping from her body much more noticeable. She grabbed the note Dorian had left under the potion, putting off having to walk back to her room in rumpled, wine spotted clothes; through the main hall which would be full of people by now. 

_ Vela Deliciae, _

_ There’s a tub behind the screens, you just have to warm the water. I’ve left you a present, some  _ extremely!!! _ expensive soap. Stop using jasmine, it doesn’t suit you! Our sneaky Spymaster dropped off fresh clothes earlier, please burn yours, beige does nothing for your complexion. _

_ Whatever you do, I am with you. I love you, soror parva. _

_ Dorian _

She could have kissed him. Soaking in a hot tub, lathering body and hair with a decadent soap scented with lavender and crystal grace drove the last lingering remnants of her drinking from her and she relaxed, almost dozing in the water until it cooled. Wrapping her hair in drying linen she picked up the comb Dorian had left her and stood in front of his full length mirror. Months of travelling and fighting had put muscle on her body, firm and toned where she had been soft for so long. Pregnancy and birth had given her wide hips and stretch marks that shimmered along her stomach and breasts, shining like starlight. Killian used to trace them, kiss them, the gift of the universe, a blessing on the lives her body had created. The Chantry disapproved of such Rivaini beliefs, but Killian kept to the old ways in some things, templar though he was, and Evelyn loved the sight of the marks, beautiful and silvery, sweeping round her body. Not even the Chantry or Corypheus could take those marks of love from her.

She dressed quickly and left her hair loose down her back. She had a plan in mind and if she didn’t start now she would doubt and procrastinate until she didn’t do anything at all. Using the back stairs and servants passages she worked her way round to the garden, hoping she wasn’t too late. Sure enough, Dorian and the Commander still sat, staring at the chess board. As she approached, she heard the Commanders rich, low voice say,

“Gloat all you like, I have this one.” She was surprised by the relaxed and easy humour in his voice, the slight smirk as he moved a piece.

“Are you sassing me Commander?” Dorian also sounded at ease, genuine friendship in his eyes as he watched the move, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

His opponent rolled his eyes, “Why do I even… Inquisitor” The humour vanished and he jumped up as he saw her, almost knocking the table over in his nervousness. She admitted to herself that he had never been hostile or rude to her, even when they argued over tactics. She had been the rude one. All she could do was stare at him, embarrassed by his deference to a woman who had treated him with contempt. Thankfully, Dorian broke the tension.

“Leaving are you? Does this mean I win?”

“Please,” Evelyn said quickly, waving the Commander back into his seat, “don’t stop on my account.”

“All right, your move.” He focused on the game again, the pair of them leaning in to watch the board.

“You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory. You’ll feel much better” As he spoke Dorian moved his Templar to take Cullen’s remaining Cleric, seemingly oblivious to the trap Evelyn could clearly see waiting for him.

“Really? Because I just won. And I feel fine.” He laughed as he made his move and Dorian growled lightly.

“Don’t get smug, there will be no living with you.” With that he stood and walked away, giving Evelyn a slight wink as he passed. Cullen cleared his throat, nervously.

“I should return to my duties as well.” He looked over at her before saying, shyly, “Unless you would care for a game?” It was an olive branch, one she had rejected before. Her father had taught them all to play but for Max and Evelyn it had been something special, a way to reconnect when they were able to spend time together. She nodded and sat to play and listening to Cullen talk about his sister beating him at chess and he and his brother practicing to win strangely took her back to her own childhood games, all three of them trying to outwit their father, Stefan poking holes in their suggestions, leading them to better strategies, so far ahead of his siblings. She didn’t want to share, but she listened to him talk, encouraged him, keeping up light small talk and thinking, in spite of herself, that she could see the appeal in spending time not thinking about the fate of the world.

As if reading her mind, Cullen said, “This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition, or related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.” 

“Me too,” she agreed. 

He hesitated, “Inquisitor. I know we haven’t started on the best foot. But, I don’t know if you know this, I met your brother, several years ago actually, we… we became friends… over chess.” He was rubbing his neck, a nervous habit of his that irritated her, his mention of Maxwell exacerbating that feeling. She didn’t want to ruin the small truce between them but she couldn’t listen to him talk about Max, not now, not yet. She stood abruptly.

“Thank you for the game, Commander. I should go, there are still some arrangements to be made before we leave.” She turned and walked away, slightly ashamed of herself, leaving him staring at her, bewildered by the sudden change, before he pulled himself together and returned to his office, wishing he knew how to deal with Evelyn Trevelyan and her moods.


	5. May I Have This Dance?

Evelyn watched Morrigan walk away and wondered how many more remarkable people would walk out on their lives to fight against Corypheus. Celene was firmly on the throne, Briala beside her, with Florianne dead and Gaspard well aware of how thin a thread held him to life. Morrigans place at court was more than secure, yet she chose to leave and follow Evelyn. She shuddered. Another life in her hands, another opportunity to fail. 

She turned to lean on the balcony, looking up to the stars and tracing the constellations with her eyes, their slightly different positions reminding her that she was far from home. Absently she raised a finger and drew designs from one to another, a childhood game that soothed her on troubled nights. As she drew, her fingers sparked lightly with green and silver, her open, calm mind drawing tiny, flickering wisplight from the Fade to form patterns in the air. Without conscious thought they began to take form. Human-shaped. Tall. Broad but graceful in movement. The figure bowed and held out a hand made of starlight. She took the hand, half in a dream, and moved into the gossamer embrace, a slow waltz in time to faint strains of music, dissolving into darkness as the music ended and Evelyn was left alone, gazing at the stars with a smile.


	6. Perseverance

As soon as Leliana gave the nod, Cullen escaped the ballroom and aimed straight for the gardens. The stifling heat and the constant barrage of arrogant, entitled and above all  _ handsy _ Orlesians had grated on his nerves until his head pounded and he felt sick to his stomach. The gardens were dark and cool and quiet and when he opened his formal tunic he finally felt able to breathe again. He sat on one of the benches surrounding an ornate fountain, the sounds of the water soothing him as he leaned back to look at the stars, easing his head and his stomach until the pain was manageable. 

In the distant corners of the gardens, he could hear the rustling and giggling that told of secret, moonlit trysts and he smiled gently. Too soon, however, heavy footsteps were moving his way, lovers murmuring farewell as he sat up straight, alert for someone using the darkness and the coming and going of lovers as an excuse to make another attack. He wished he wore his sword and shield but the rules of the court meant no weapons in the presence of the Empress. Except for those trying to assassinate her of course, he thought resentfully. 

The footsteps stopped beside the fountain, a murmured question receiving a quiet answer from a familiar voice. In surprise, Cullen turned to see Dorian wave dismissively to a disgruntled looking young man who stalked off towards the guest quarters. As soon as he was out of sight, Dorians eyes were drawn up to a balcony above them, not visible from where Cullen sat. Whatever he saw distracted him completely and Cullen could observe his friend without being seen. Dorian's tunic was also open at the collar but where Cullen knew he looked a shambles, unkempt and sweaty, Dorian looked casually gorgeous, far less skin showing than his usual armour but somehow more appealing, the line of his collarbone had its own perfection, set off by a hint of purple bruise barely seen under the rumpled collar. His mouth was red and looked full and swollen, hair slightly mussed. As he continued to watch that balcony a look of quiet sadness and longing took over his face and his eyes gleamed, the hint of a tear reflecting the pale lights flickering through the shaded windows. Unthinking, Cullen stood and moved to comfort him and only then did Dorian notice he was not alone.

“Commander,” he said, clearing the roughness from his throat, “I’m surprised to see you. How did you manage to drag yourself away from all those admirers?” He spoke quietly, not his usual brash arrogance but something more suited to the dark. Cullen snorted.

“Thankfully, a pitched battle in the middle of the ballroom completely upstaged me. And Leliana finally capitulated and sounded the retreat. I think there’s only her, Josephine and Vivienne still in there and Maker knows why but those three are actually enjoying themselves.”

“Hmm, ladies do love to dance.” Dorian was only half listening, entranced with the view above him and Cullen automatically followed his gaze to see what had caught his attention.

The Inquisitor stood on the balcony above, alone, her arm raised as she traced the stars in the sky, oblivious to the earth below. As she moved, her hand seemed surrounded by glittering light, as if the stars themselves came to her. He could feel the faint tug of magic, see the wisplight shining faintly green, shaded so by the mark on her left hand, dancing around her until the form of a man was moving with her, in time to the music. They danced together, Evelyn and the starlight, until the music stopped and the lights faded away, leaving her alone, gazing up at the faraway stars. The two men watched in silence until she turned and walked out of sight.

With the Inquisitor gone, Cullen was once more aware of Dorian’s state of dress and the memory of her lonely dance suddenly angered him. 

“Why aren’t you up there with her, instead of carrying on with some Orlesian in the bushes?” He didn’t bother to hide the disgust in his voice, infidelity was something he had no patience with anyway, but the air of sadness as she danced had been heartbreaking. Evelyn had no time for him, her one attempt at civility ruined by his oafishness just before they left for this ridiculous place. She was friendly with her other advisors and her Inner Circle but everyone knew she and Dorian adored each other. The morning of their abortive chess match, Leliana had appropriated one of his scouts to deliver clothing for her to Dorian’s quarters, not for the first time either. Yet she danced alone while Dorian was doing who knew what with who knew who.

Dorian flinched as if Cullen had struck him. “What?” But Cullen had nothing more to say, his headache flaring, all his bad humour returned as he stalked off leaving a bewildered Dorian behind him.

\-----

Cullen was glad to be back in Skyhold at last. The routine, training his soldiers, even the endless reports to be read and signed were a relief compared to the tensions of the trip to Orlais. Since the ball he had found reasons not to speak to Dorian, who had thankfully paid far more attention to the Inquisitor on the return journey. It hadn’t been hard since the mage was ignoring him and in the days since their arrival home he hadn’t appeared for their usual game of chess. Something in Cullen’s chest hurt at the distance between them. He had genuinely enjoyed their games and the time they spent together, as unlikely a pair as they were, they had many similar tastes. But he wasn’t sorry for what he had said and if Dorian was still angry at him then so be it, he could join the club.

Unfortunately, those chess matches had been the only relaxation Cullen ever allowed himself, too constantly reminding himself of his failings and all the ways he had let down those he was responsible for again and again to be comfortable taking time off. Of course, Dorian had walked all over those excuses, but without the other man egging him on and challenging him he had no reason to stop and since Dorian had always made sure there was food and drink available Cullen was once again missing meals.

Today was a bad day. Every piece of news that came in was bad, everything required resources or people they didn’t have as the Venatori ramped up their activities across the continent. He could barely focus on the words before him, the burning pain in his head and the sickness in his stomach were eclipsed by the shaking of his hands. The Inquisition had no time for his weakness. The world was falling apart while he selfishly vacillated, his desperate attempt to distance himself from the utter waste of space he had become was costing too much. He stared down into the case he couldn’t even remember bringing out of the drawer, the blue glow hidden from sight but he could feel its song in his blood, its promise to end the pain, the nausea, the shaking and replace it with focus, with clarity. The urge to take it was almost unbearable. Rylen and the other ex-templars had their supply, they didn’t struggle on, giving less than their all when the world was at stake. Then the image of Samson came to him, lost to his addiction in Kirkwall, then standing over Haven with Corypheus’ forces. On its heels were thoughts of the red templars, visibly corrupted by red lyrium but really, was there much difference? The older templars, the ones who became more and more vague, until finally they just disappeared altogether. The mages had rebelled to break free of their prisons, no one considered whether the templars were also held in a prison, or whether they were worthy of breaking free from it. Anger filled him at the thought of generations of young men and women being brainwashed, corrupted, then poisoned, turned against their charges, against their calling, until so little was left that they were discarded to end their days in madness, shut away from the world. With a roar he threw the box across the room, barely missing the Inquisitor as she walked through the door.

“Maker’s breath! I didn’t hear you enter!” He wished he could sink into the ground, she was the very last person he would wish to see him like this. He hung his head, ashamed at his outburst. “Forgive me?”

Evelyn looked stunned, staring at the shattered filter with the blue liquid dripping out of it. She looked across at him, taking in the dark circles, the gaunt face and the shaking hands.

“Cullen, if you need to talk?” That she would ask him that, the woman who hated him, who blamed him for her brother’s death, was humiliating. He was the Commander of her armies and she looked at him like a sick patient. He tried to demur, to tell her she didn’t have to show him concern, but pain flashed through him like a knife to the stomach and he stumbled, apologising as she rushed forward to catch him.

“I never meant for this to interfere.” He had told her about stopping lyrium, made it seem like a minor fact, unimportant, Cassandra’s promise an unnecessary fallback plan for a conscientious Commander. Everyone had conspired to keep the truth from her, covering for him, even when he asked them not to, although he hadn’t been strong enough to tell her himself, had he? Perhaps it was time for him to tell her how right she was to doubt and despise him, how broken and worthless he had become, no matter what the other said. She had no rose-tinted glasses, no reason to make excuses, to flatter him with trust. Let her sit in judgement of him and name his sentence.

So he told her, about Kinloch Hold, about being the only templar left alive when the Wardens came. He told her about being sent to Kirkwall where the creeping madness of Meredith Stannard poisoned everything he had believed in, everything he clung to in a desperate plea for order, every blood mage confirming what Kinloch had taught him, that mages were a danger and there was no question of ‘if’ they would turn, but ‘when’. He had finally discovered everything he believed was wrong, but too late, far too late. Finally, he told her his great fear, that everything would come crashing down because he was too weak. Too weak to shake it off, too weak to take it, just too weak. Finally, he had nothing more to say and looked up at her, feeling lighter than he had in months, ready to accept whatever judgement she handed down.

At some point they had sat down, he in his seat, her on the edge of his desk. He looked up at her into a face that was tight with fury and his heart sank. He had put himself in her hands, expecting nothing but apparently a secret part of him had hoped for forgiveness and absolution. She stood and started pacing the room while he waited for her to say the words that would finally end his delusion of atonement. Eventually, she stopped and turned to him.

“Every Circle in Thedas knows what happened to Kinloch Hold, how the traitor Mac Tir manipulated a corrupt few to cause such destruction. Every Senior Enchanter and Knight-Commander was instructed to ensure that such a thing could never happen again. No official statement was ever made but there were rumours, everything from the Rite of Annulment to the survival of one solitary templar [Cullen flinched at these words] to a horde of demons and abominations joining the darkspawn horde to spread the Blight. No one ever told us the truth.

“I was 19 and a very junior Enchanter but I had a particular interest in the balance of creative and entropic forces. I was asked to join a team looking at a very specific problem, one the Chantry had not considered and would probably not have sanctioned. I devised a programme for supporting and rehabilitating the victims of any such incursion, a way to heal that theoretical, mythical, surviving templar. We tested my methods on people suffering a variety of traumas, including mages and templars traumatised by the Harrowing. I know my work was sent to every Circle, just as I know an open invitation was sent for anyone who might benefit from our techniques to come to Ostwick, to come to me, so I could try to heal them. And in spite of all of that, you are sitting in front of me, telling me that  _ you _ are that hypothetical templar, the person I did all that work to try to save, and  _ not one person thought to send you to me! Not one person used that work to help you! _ ” She was almost screaming in her temper when he finally realised it was anger  _ for _ him not  _ at _ him he had seen in her face. He had no words. Greagoir and Irving had known, Meredith and Orsino had known, they had had the means to save him, to give him another chance at being the man he had dreamed of being and they had abandoned him instead. His mind couldn’t process anything, he just sat there, numb, staring at the woman who could have been his salvation and waiting for her to tell him he was a lost cause and it was time to cut him loose. He watched her walk over towards him and kneel before him, unable to move or speak as her hand came up to cradle his cheek. When she spoke, the words were soft. 

“It is not too late, it’s never too late. You are doing an amazing thing and you’ve been doing it all alone when that should never have happened. You’ve been lying about how hard it is, not just the lyrium, everything, Not any more. You are under my orders, Inquisitor to Commander, you will work with me and I will do everything in my power to help you. I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to know you sooner, to find out what was going on with you, but I promise I’ll make up for it.” He couldn’t speak, only lean into that gentle touch and wonder if he was dreaming. They stayed in that position for a moment before Evelyn stood and straightened her tunic before walking away. At the door she turned to look at him.

“Please ask one of your scouts to summon Captain Rylen, Commander, you are relieved of all duties for the next three days. You are to relax, eat and for The Maker’s sake please play chess with Dorian. He’s been intolerable since we got back from Halamshiral. Since he hasn’t told you himself, I will. We aren’t a couple, Dorian likes men, he values your friendship almost as much as he values mine, and he’s miserable because he thinks you despise him for having sex with some man in the gardens during the ball while you thought he should have been romancing me. I think you probably miss him as much as he misses you but because you’re both men you’ll avoid actually communicating unless threatened with death. So I am telling you now, Commander, as I told him before I came here, you both sort it out, one way or the other, or I’ll make you both wish you were dead. Now, go to bed. I’ll see you in three days time, in my room after breakfast.” And with that she walked out and shut the door.


	7. I Have A Plan

Evelyn walked out of Cullen’s office and commandeered the first three scouts she saw, sending one to the kitchens, one to tell certain people to meet her in her rooms and the third to take her to Captain Rylen. She gave Rylen clear instructions of his duties over the next three days and told him to report to her if he had any difficulties, particularly with the Commander. She suspected he knew about Cullen’s difficulties since he seemed unsurprised by her orders, but that was filed away to be dealt with at a later date. There were far more fitting people she intended to be shouting at and with that in mind she sent the Captain to Cullen’s office and headed for her room.

Cassandra and The Iron Bull were already waiting for her, but she wasn’t in the mood to go through everything more than once and she didn’t trust herself to stay civil when she started so she walked over to her desk and started going through reports, organising them by importance. Cassandra seemed about to speak but Bull shook his head and she subsided while Evelyn pretended to ignore them. Within a few minutes she could hear more than one pair of footsteps coming up the stairs towards her room and didn’t bother looking up when Leliana and Dorian walked in. They were both perceptive enough not to say anything, waiting for her to acknowledge them, but she knew Cassandra was getting more and more antsy and since she was probably the person Evelyn was angriest at, she took a perverse pleasure in continuing the silence far beyond the comfortable and waited for the Seeker to cave. It didn’t take long.

“Inquisitor,” she began, “What…” Evelyn looked up and waved her to silence, appeared to be about to speak and then stopped and returned to her paperwork. She knew Leliana and Bull would pick up on what she was doing, they were far more familiar with subtlety than Cassandra, and Dorian was certainly used to the silent treatment. She needed to calm down now they were all here but she also wanted to emphasise the frustration of being kept in the dark. Finally, she sent out a silent summons that was answered almost immediately by Cole’s appearance in the middle of the room, causing the others to jump and giving Evelyn a quick moment of amusement. She put the report she was staring at aside and moved away from the desk, looking at her friends and acknowledging that she was as much to blame as they for this situation. She indicated they should sit in the little grouping of sofas and chairs she used for casual socialising, taking a little of the tension out of the room as she sat with her legs curled under her in her favourite chair.

“I’ve relieved Commander Cullen of his duties,” she said, noting the surprise on Cassandra and Dorian’s faces and the lack of it on Bull and Leliana’s. “For the next three days, everything that would go through him from the usual sources will go to Rylen, Cassandra, please be available to support him. Anything sensitive, anything you can’t deal with, bring directly to me.”

“Inquisitor, I don’t understand,” Cassandra looked concerned, “Has something happened?”

Evelyn couldn’t help snapping at her. “Yes, something has happened. Something has been happening for a long time, Cassandra, but apparently it wasn’t worth telling me about the Commander’s withdrawal symptoms.” She switched her glare to Leliana, “Apparently, the fact that one of my advisors was subjected to massive traumas was a minor point not worth sharing.” Finally she switched to Dorian, almost shaking with the effort of not screaming at them, “And apparently leaving someone to fall apart because you’re in a snit about him misunderstanding something you have never bothered to clarify is how we show friendship around here.” He looked offended and slightly hurt, opening his mouth to say something then closing it again. She collapsed slightly into the chair and looked at them.

“I’m ashamed.” She spoke softly, looking at them each in turn. “I’m ashamed that someone we depend on to run most of the Inquisition is desperately ill on our watch. I’m ashamed that I let my personal feelings blind me to the pain of another person, just because it’s a person I don’t like. I’m ashamed that my advisors don’t trust me enough to let me help, or even to let me know a problem exists.

“Cassandra, you promised Cullen if this compromised his ability to lead you would replace him.” She held up a hand before Cassandra could retort. “I know his abilities are not the problem, he’s the best Commander we could have. But when he can’t eat or sleep, when he nearly collapsed with the pain just walking across his office, he is compromised. The fact he’s amazing when he’s in that state should just have made you work harder to make sure he didn’t get into that state.”

“Leliana, were you there when he was rescued from Kinloch Hold?” The Spymaster nodded, confirming what Evelyn had already known. “And you were in Kirkwall at various times when he was there, you saw what was going on in the city?” Again, a nod. “And your only suggestion was that I should ‘talk to him’?” She turned away, leaving the redhead looking slightly guilty, and focused on Dorian. “I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell your friend that we’re not a couple, Dorian. Who you want, or don’t want to be with is nobody’s business but yours but sulking because someone was honest with you? That’s beyond childish. You could have cleared things up at Halamshiral, told him the truth. You’re so convinced everyone will reject you for something no one here cares about that you’ve hurt your friend to save yourself some embarrassment.” She looked around at them. “We four have failed the Commander, badly. We need to make up for it.” She looked over to Cole and Bull. “We need your help to do that. I have a plan.”

\-----

Being at a loose end was an unfamiliar feeling to Cullen. He had been handed a basket of food, then Rylen turned up and ordered him out of his tower, informing him of the suite the Inquisitor had allocated him and instructing him to use it. It seemed Lady Trevelyan had terrified the life out of the Captain so all he could do was retreat. 

The suite was not at all what he had expected. Away from the main living quarters and on the top level of the castle, it had windows that stretched floor to ceiling across one wall, interrupted by wide doors onto a balcony overlooking the Frostbacks. Mirroring Trevelyans suite and only slightly smaller, it was supposed to be reserved for visiting royalty. He considered walking back out and insisting on a guest room or a return to his own quarters but a note left on the desk made it clear what response he could expect if he tried. It also let him know that he would not be going back to his tower room until 'sufficient renovations have made it fit for habitation.' His heart sank at the thought of being hemmed in at night, unable to see the stars, but it had been inevitable that repairs would be forced upon him eventually so he decided to enjoy the view while he could. So he opened the balcony doors wide, ate the entire contents of the generous basket then, feeling full and exhausted, lay on the wide, soft bed and slept. 

A few hours later he was wandering aimlessly around Skyhold and found himself at the stables, petting Evelyn’s dracolisk and feeding it scraps of nug-meat. 

“You too, huh?” Cullen turned to see Blackwall watching him. The Warden walked out of a stall, covered in horsehair and carrying a grooming kit that he placed on the rack, then he grabbed an apple from a bag that hung above and turned to feed it to his horse, a Ferelden Forder named Strider. The two men rarely came in contact. Evelyn preferred to deal with her Inner Circle directly and kept them out of Cullen’s chain of command, a situation he was more than happy with given that he considered most of them unreliable troublemakers. 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not exactly a secret, is it, Lady Trevelyan relieving her advisors from their duties? The gossips are having a field day. Especially since most of the castle heard the flaming row she had with Sister Nightingale when she banned her from the Rookery. Lady Montilyet left for Val Royeaux about an hour ago and rumour has it the Inquisitor set wards on the Ambassadors office, the Rookery and your tower so if any of you set foot in them there’ll be hell to pay. Then she stood in front of that ugly great chair of hers and said if any of the three of you were disturbed before Monday, the perpetrator would spend the next month living in the dungeons, only coming out to do the dirtiest jobs she could find. Said from now on, nobody in the Inquisition goes without some downtime, no matter who they are. Conveniently didn’t mention her getting any downtime mind you, but the mood she’s in I don’t think anyone will be pointing that out.”

Cullen sighed. It looked like Evelyn had decided to cover up his failure with dramatics. Sometimes he blamed Dorian for her shift from the demure, restrained Circle mage he had met at Haven, but the stories Maxwell had told of his sister meant he knew better. Evelyn had faked meekness when she needed to, but she had started training as a rogue for a very good reason and the more secure her position as Inquisitor, the more the true wildness of her nature became evident. It was worrying, unpredictable, and insanely alluring for someone who had spent most of his life repressing everything that didn’t fit into the mold he had chosen for himself.

“I admire the Inquisitor very much and I definitely appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure what this is going to do for morale, or for our reputation.”

Blackwell snorted, “Are you joking? Morale is great. She’s got the three biggest workaholics in Thedas off everyone’s backs for three days; she’s shown she won’t just work people until they drop either because believe it or not, Commander, everyone in this castle knows exactly how little you three eat or sleep; and everyone’s hoping some noble twat will decide her ruling doesn’t apply to them and end up in the dungeons and cleaning the garderobes for a month.” He paused and looked at Cullen with sympathy. “Everyone needs a rest, Commander, even you. The only thing the rest of us would ask is that when Monday comes the three of you find some way to return the favour.” With that he stalked off back to the barn, leaving Cullen wondering how they could manage to do just that.

He was still contemplating the problem when it occurred to him that he had run out of scraps for Niblet (a ridiculous name for the fearsome creature), it was getting dark and the courtyard had slowly emptied as people headed to their evening meal. He washed his hands in the small trough Dennet kept filled with clean water, wincing at the smell of the tar soap but glad to get clean of the nug-blood and dracolisk drool. The entrance to the kitchen was nearby and it was tempting to head there and grab some food to take to his temporary quarters rather than eating with everyone in the main hall and listening to the gossip and speculation. Maybe he should follow Josephine’s example and leave Skyhold entirely but he couldn’t think of anywhere to go. At least Josephine had friends and family in Val Royeaux, his family were miles away in South Reach and as for friends, well, here or away would make no difference to anyone anyway.

The encroaching evening always pulled his mood down into darkness with it, warm light shining out windows, the chatting and singing from the Herald’s Rest only ever seeming to make him feel more alone and now even the work that he used to push the darkness away had been taken from him. He had no real appetite now and the faint pain in his head that the nap and peaceful hour in the stables had pushed away was back with a vengeance, pulsing in time with his heart and blurring his vision. He turned to head to his room, no longer interested in picking up food on the way there, and walked right into Dorian.

He muttered an apology and made to move around the mage. What on earth was the man doing there anyway? Evelyn had said that they weren’t a couple, that Dorian wasn’t even interested in women, but then why wouldn’t he have told Cullen that? They were supposed to be friends. He thought they were anyway. Obviously Dorian hadn’t felt the same or why wouldn’t he have corrected Cullen at Halamshiral? It was Cullen’s own fault, being civil for the sake of a decent chess game didn’t mean the Tevinter mage would automatically feel friendly towards an ex-Templar, Dorian didn’t owe him anything. But that didn’t stop him feeling bereft and adrift without those daily games to hold him together. So he tried to move past Dorian, to let him go wherever he was headed, when the man put out a hand to stop him.

“Cullen?” He blinked. Dorian never sounded that uncertain. He looked down at Dorian’s hand, then up at the man himself, confused by the hesitation he saw there.

“Dorian? Did you want something?” Sitting at a chess board it was easy to forget that Dorian was a few inches taller, something unusual for a man who stood over six foot himself. In Skyhold, only Dorian and Bull were taller than Cullen and somehow Dorian’s louche mannerisms always made him seem shorter in comparison to Cullen’s rigid posture. Now, looking up into steel-grey eyes, Cullen just felt small.

“Can we talk?” From his tone of voice, Dorian expected him to say no, probably to walk away as he had at the Winter Palace. Instead, he sat on a bench and nodded. He expected Dorian to lean against the stable wall, or pull over one of the barrels to sit on, but instead the mage sat beside Cullen and leaned back, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath.

“I should have come earlier, but Vela wouldn’t tell me where she had stashed you. I know she banned you from your tower. I thought you might have been in the hall this evening.”

“I lost track of the time.” He didn’t want to admit he had planned to avoid the hall anyway.

“Hmmm. I’ve been threatened with a particularly painful and lingering death if I don’t apologise. One which was described in disturbing amounts of detail and began with the loss of my moustache - which I think was rather below the belt. Although not as below the belt as her next target, evidently.” Dorian shuddered slightly and Cullen couldn’t help the slight twitch of a smile. “Smirk all you like, Commander, don’t think she doesn’t have plans for you if we don’t ‘play nice’. That’s a direct quote by the way.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Dorian. I was out of line, commenting on something I knew nothing about.”

“With all due respect, Evelyn disagrees. As it happens, so do I. You knew nothing about it, because I told you nothing about it. I let you believe something I knew wasn’t true and have been justly reprimanded for damaging our friendship and hurting you to save myself embarrassment. Another quote, of course.” He paused, as if gathering himself for something unpleasant and Cullen wondered if it was really so demeaning for Dorian to apologise to him. He hadn’t even wanted the apology and he felt himself getting annoyed at the other man’s obvious reluctance to admit to being in the wrong. Then Dorian pulled the rug from under him.

“In Tevinter the only thing more important than being a powerful mage and becoming a magister to further your family, is breeding even more powerful mages. I declined the honour of being married off for the sole purpose of procreation and when humiliation, hostility and locking me up didn’t make me see reason my father decided blood magic would do the trick, or leave me a vegetable, but really, as long as the family line can continue, who cares about a few culls along the way? So while Vela insists on referring to my proclivities as a ‘small thing’, in fact it’s a rather big thing to me. The truth is, I enjoy your company, I enjoy our games and our conversations and I selfishly allowed you to draw your own conclusions rather than risk you avoiding me.”

Cullen was stunned. Of all the things he had expected to hear, this wasn’t it. He didn’t know what to say but he could feel the tension rising in Dorian and knew if he didn’t respond at all it would confirm Dorian’s fear of rejection. He desperately tried to cobble together some semblance of thought.

“You enjoy my company?”

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. “Of course! I admit to being interested in men, to being locked up and experimented on with blood magic by my own father, to being a complete embarrassment to the whole of Tevinter, and you, ridiculous man, accept all that and are confused by the fact that  _ I _ enjoy spending time with  _ you _ . Aren’t you afraid I’ll hold true to my heritage and use blood magic on you? Or worse, try to seduce you into my bed? Why are you southerners all so utterly impossible?”

Cullen grinned at him, feeling lighter than he had since before the Winter Palace. “I’m fairly sure you would have used blood magic by now if you were going to, if only to try and win a game of chess since you’ve tried every other method of cheating. And while the idea of someone like you bothering to seduce someone like me is flattering, I’m sure there are far more attractive prospects than a broken down old soldier.” He turned to Dorian, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could be open with me. I’m not a good friend, Dorian, I understand if you’d rather not be burdened with me, I…”

“Stop that! I promised Vela I’d have everything straightened out and back to normal by the end of the day, and I’m not going to lose my moustache - or other things - because of your nonsense. Obviously the only solution is to admit we are both hopelessly awful people, instantly forgive each other and go get drunk.”

What could he say to that?

“Fine. But I’m buying.”


	8. Where to Begin?

On Monday morning Evelyn sat on her balcony, cradling her coffee and manipulating the wards that kept mountain winds and unfriendly callers away. She did it for Dorian quite often, gradually raising the temperature of the barrier until he was basking in the heat like a lizard, but it took a fair amount of energy so she couldn’t sustain it for more than a couple of hours. For the Commander she wouldn’t bring it anywhere near as high. If he appeared in anything less than full armour and fur cloak, with a sword at his side, she would be very surprised. For the last few days she had spent every minute she could reviewing her knowledge and techniques, the last raven Leliana had sent before being banished to wherever she had gone, had been to the First Enchanter in Ostwick, asking that copies of her research be sent as soon as possible, preferably in the company of at least one of her assistants. Otherwise her days had been full of Inquisition business, managing anything her advisors deputies had referred on, while working on her own reports and correspondence.

As soon as Leliana and Josephine had returned last night all three had congregated in Cullen’s borrowed rooms, no doubt to plot revenge. No one seemed to understand that she was never overwhelmed by the work she did, that working through paperwork in Skyhold gave her a chance to physically rest while traipsing across Orlais and Ferelden gave her a sense of freedom she had completely forgotten in her years in the Circle. Closing rifts, fighting demons and Venatori, these things were draining, distressing. But moving through towns and countryside, spending time with her friends, even finding lost rings or taking flowers to a grave, these things made her feel stimulated, useful, energised. It also reduced the amount of time she had for moping.

If she was honest she was dreading this morning. She had worked with people she disliked before, that didn't concern her, liking someone had nothing to do with helping them. But she was trying to help the Commander recover from a decade long trauma, while they were both fighting a war. She had backup plans, adjuncts and alternatives. She wanted her notes and an assistant so if she fell the treatment could continue without interruption. All of these things she could control. But once he walked through the door, everything was in his hands and she could only hope he was willing to be his own salvation. 

The bell rang the ninth hour and the knock came at the door. She took a deep breath, smoothed her tunic, and opened the door. He stood before her, blank-faced, armour and cloak firmly in place although he had only a belt knife at his side and the empty space where his sword should be was unnerving. Cullen wasn't handsome, with his deep-set eyes and mouth too narrow for the rest of his face, but he was charismatic and his golden colouring was fascinating. He supposedly had a sly half smirk that she had never seen but both Max and Dorian had assured her was incredibly sexy. Right now he looked like he was going to his own execution. She invited him in, indicating an armchair and offered him a drink before she sat and sipped her once again reheated coffee. There were fruit and pastries on the nearby table but he declined everything, sitting stiffly. Inwardly, Evelyn sighed. 

“Commander, I apologise for losing my temper last week when you were unwell. How are you feeling today? Do you like the quarters I assigned you? I’m afraid they’re only temporary but hopefully more comfortable while we fix your draughty tower?”

“With all due respect, Inquisitor, I like my draughty tower. My people know where to find me. I…” he hesitated, reluctant to expose any weakness, “When I can’t sleep, being able to see the sky and the stars can be… helpful.”

She nodded, “I agree, which is why I assigned you the quarters with the biggest windows. It’s also why I’m having your tower remodelled. Windows similar to the ones in your office will be put in your chambers along the far wall. Where there is currently a hole in your roof, there will be a large, angled skylight.” She raised her hand. “And before you say this is too much, look around. I have a ridiculously huge and luxurious space and all I do is run around zapping holes in the air. Josephine and Leliana both have rooms that are appropriate to their stature here and allow them to relax. Sometimes they even use those rooms. The Commander of the Inquisition armies will have no less.”

With that tone of voice there was no point arguing and the idea of being able to see the sky without the freezing draughts and occasional snow drifts was very appealing, so he nodded and thanked her for her consideration. Relaxing enough to pick up a pastry, he nodded agreement when she lifted the coffee pot, adding plenty of sugar and cream as he liked it.

“Thank you. Inquisitor, you didn’t order me to come here to talk about building works. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate if we discussed whatever it is you wanted to discuss. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Actually you don’t.” He raised an eyebrow at that and she smiled almost apologetically. “We’ve had a breather since Halamshiral, less reports generally which probably means something major heading our way. Of the reports that were piled up, Rylen dealt with some of them, I went through the rest and dealt with the important things. As of the seventh bell last night you had five pieces of paper on your desk.” He flushed, embarrassed that she and Rylen had managed to do in a few days what he had never managed, to clear his desk.

“Don’t worry,” she said quickly, “Most of what was there were insignificant things, in fact a fair few should never have come to you in the first place and I’ve had words with the Captains about prioritising. You are still indispensable. But you need an aide so I would appreciate it if you would find one as soon as possible. Josephine and Leliana have been given the same instructions.” She cleared her throat and looked directly at him. “I’m not sure if you understood what I was saying last week?”

“That you had researched ways of healing trauma, yes, I understood.”

“No,” she said, softly. “I researched ways of healing you, specifically you, although I didn’t know it. My work was set up for your set of circumstances, or at least your circumstances ten years ago. There were a group of us and we did a lot of work with people suffering a range of traumas, it was too interesting to let go, but my personal research was to work with a templar, on a one to one basis, who had been abused or tortured by mages or abominations. My patients were few but it is long term work. I even had two from Kirkwall - one of the reasons I was so angry. I suspect Stannard found you more useful traumatised. 

"But the point was to work with someone as soon as possible. Frankly, given everything you've experienced, you're amazing, no, you are," she said, as he grimaced at the praise, remembering the behaviour that prompted all this. "But you are struggling. You will probably continue to struggle for the rest of your life, I can't wave my hand and make it all go away. Nor would I want to. Something Cole has difficulty understanding is that who we are is shaped by who we were and what we did. But I think I can help you and I would be privileged if you would allow me to try."

She sat back to wait for a response, watching as he considered the things she had said. Finally, he nodded, and she smiled and led him onto the balcony. When the warmth hit him he frowned and looked at her. 

"No wonder Dorian goes on about the views from your balcony. I'm surprised you can get rid of him." 

She laughed, "I lift the temperature far more for Dorian, but I can't keep it up for too long." She indicated one of the armchairs Bull had brought out for her, sitting cross-legged in the other. She flushed slightly, remembering how he had knelt before her, how she had trusted her wards to silence her screams as she came with his face between her legs, how he had sat where Cullen now sat as she rode his cock, both of them calling the others name as he spilled inside her. She should have resisted but Bull was her favourite temptation. 

“If you’re too warm, Inquisitor, you don’t need to keep the heat up for my sake?” She was definitely blushing now. She took a deep breath and pulled herself together.

“We should make a start. Before we do anything, we need to set ground rules. I’ll explain the basics of how I usually proceed, we set mutually agreed boundaries and we plan how this will go. This is about you, if you don’t agree, you won’t engage and if you don’t engage with what we’re doing then I won’t be able to help you.” He nodded. “Firstly, I ask that you call me Evelyn, and can I call you Cullen? As soon as you set foot on this balcony, there is no rank, no Inquisition, no war, no Corypheus. Secondly, we will never spend more than two hours at a time doing this and if it’s too much you tell me and we stop till next time. Finally, everything we do will rely on trust. If one of us breaks that trust, it’s over, end of the line.”

She watched him absorb these rules. Boundaries will come later, if he can’t agree to these three things it’s done before it’s begun. It seems like forever, but finally he nods his agreement.

“Good, now we can begin.”

\-------


	9. What Does Not Kill Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter explicitly describes events leading up to 'Breaking the Circle' in DA:O. It contains violent rape, murder, cannibalism and physical and mental torture. I have written it in such a way that you can skip this chapter and you won't miss anything of the story and changed the rating to Explicit. THIS CHAPTER MAY BE DISTURBING TO YOU. You have been warned.

The Tower is never truly silent, even at night there are the little sounds of a building cooling, the clinking armour of the templars on their rounds, the rustling of parchment and vellum from late night visits to the library, the nighttime sounds of almost a hundred people living and sleeping under the same roof. 

Even now it isn't silent, though bodies litter the floors and blood paints the walls. Three ghosts walk the halls of Kinloch Hold, bearing witness to the horrors within. The huge entryway holds a bare dozen templars and a handful of apprentices, the youngest ones clinging together, desperate to know they are not alone. All orient themselves to face the massive doors, praying to anyone who will listen that those doors hold until help comes, closing their eyes and covering their ears when they hear the pounding and the pleas to be let out, to be saved, the silence that eventually falls as the templars stand firm, tears in their eyes, weapons at the ready, determined to let no demon or abomination past, no matter the cost. Behind them a weary man sits and pens an unthinkable letter, in the past few days he has become shrunken, wizened, deep furrows on his face will never fade; he seals the wax and hands it to another, begging him to move swiftly and bring an end to their torment. 

Beyond the door is emptiness. Those who pounded and begged have moved on, some to the lower levels, begging the Maker for a secret exit, some to fight against the evil that has taken over their home, some just to hide and hope not to be found. Some have gone to join that evil, to live at any cost, even the cost of their souls. In the solitary cells beneath their feet a man waits in silence, neither knowing nor caring what happens above, his only company for the past year a cat who will become possessed, kill his guards and so lead to his escape. Two of the ghosts recognise this man, this solitary prisoner will change the world and watching him in the mouldering cell they can understand what drove him to it, can forgive him though they couldn’t, or will not, when he does.

They move unseen through the deadly tower and watch as the story unfolds before them. A group of children, protected by two older apprentices and an elderly mage, make their way towards the closed doors, scavenging for any food or water they can find, getting weaker as the days pass. The youngest is only four years old, brought to the Circle a week ago, unable to understand what is happening around him, only knowing instinctively that his life depends on staying close to the group. In spite of their best efforts, he is getting dangerously dehydrated, he may not survive to see help come, if it does. No one talks about the alternatives, that they may not last that long. Or that the doors may open only to admit a wave of templars dedicated to killing every person left alive within these walls. Instead they walk and hide and scavenge and pray, the younger ones for a return to what they know, the older for a miracle. 

Further in there are more bodies, bloated with gas, unrecognizable, maggots crawling from orifices, flies sucking once living fluids, only robes or armour labelling mages and templars. Those who survive pass through quickly and hope that nothing will indicate a friend, a lover in those rotting piles of flesh. The tower holds the summer heat, soon there will be dessicated skeletons and the flies will disappear for softer food, for now it only makes the stench more unbearable. A Tranquil moves among the bodies, trying to clean a store room, discomforted by the events but unable to feel anything for those he once knew, spoke to, worked with. He went to the doors and found them shut. In a day or so he will try again but will find a magical barrier and so will return to his store room. He knows what is happening, knows what it means, but it does not touch him and so he cleans and orders his stock and waits, with patience, for rescue or death.

The next floor is different. The bodies are less, there are living people here, but for the ghosts the images are worse than anything they have seen. Hunger abominations preside over a feast of flesh, templars and mages eating their dead brethren, blood and more running over chins as they imagine feasting on fine foods and delicacies, selecting one of their number at every meal, that one being returned to their own mind as they are surrounded and skinned and gutted, the others seeing only a dead carcass before them to be prepared, unable to hear the screams as their victim begs for mercy and the abominations feed on the pain and horror and gluttony. Rage demons appear, infecting those who have tried to flee, causing them to turn on those who have sought safety in company, ripping them apart with bare hands, beating and kicking as demons soak up the anger, growing stronger with every broken bone, every internal organ turned to jelly by metal boots. A senior mage faces a sloth demon, carrying his last hope at ending this horror, and knows despair as he feels his mind slipping away into sleep, the scroll tucked within his robes where none will know to find it while he searches frantically for a way back to the waking world, his life force draining as hour by hour pass.

Desire demons have taken the templars chambers for their own, preying on restrained lusts, mages and templars acting out their most secret desires, those they wanted and those they ashamed to dream of. Five templars surround a teenage mage, abusing his body in every imaginable way as he cries out for forgiveness, for rescue, for death. In the next room a templar lies, bloated and rotting as her long dead body is kissed, caressed, fucked by another who had adored her in silence and now imagines his love returning his affection, sighing with pleasure under him as maggots fill his mouth while he sucks a blackened nipple, the demon drawing life from him with every orgasm and soon he too will be dead. The ghosts have no bodies but the urge to vomit drives them through these halls, away from these sights, searching for the one they have come for. One room remains, a solitary templar embroiled in a fantasy of wife and children, his body wasting away as he stands, unable to eat or sleep or move, talking to a family who will never exist, and at the end of the corridor there is a boy.

He kneels within a purple glowing cage, the lines of the Chant falling from his lips, rocking himself in a desperate search for comfort. He is given neither food nor drink, but demons ensure neither starvation nor dehydration can take him. At random times they wake him, with loud noises, explosions of fire or lightening, the earth moving under him until he vomits bile over his stained armour, a wet pile in the corner his only latrine. He dreads the moment the cage vanishes, when he is dragged to a different room each time. He has witnessed his friends hacking each other apart and eating the remains, abusing each other and any who come within reach, he knows it is only a matter of time before his body will be given over to one of those groups and waiting for that day to come wears him down more than lack of food or drink or sleep, until he wishes he could reach a knife, a nail or anything with which he might open his veins and escape this torment. He comes to long for the end and in the darkest hours, when he has been left too long in silence and alone, he listens to the sounds of enjoyment and wonders if fighting is worth it, if letting go, giving in, would be a quicker end. But then he is shown what they are doing to each other, the noises completely at odds with the actions, and he drags his ever darkening soul back into his body, drops to his knees and prays for salvation. In the Harrowing Chamber above he hears the screams, a twisted counterpoint to false ecstasy, and watches as the doors open, yet another abomination or blood mage walking out and they torment him with their freedom, mocking him as they pass.

But all this he could endure, shielding himself with his faith, rubbing a worn silver coin as he mumbles the Chant of Light, until they bring her before him. The mage is young, her Harrowing only a few months ago, the first time he had ever held a sword over an initiates neck, determined to carry out his duty, his heart bleeding at the thought of killing the girl who smiled at him in the Library, whose bright golden hair cascaded down her back, shimmering until it seemed to light the room as she walked in, sweet, lilting voice soothing those around her. Over hours the demon destroys her, using his form, forcing himself into her body again and again as she screamed for him to stop, begged him to kill her, her face marred with swelling and bruises, nose broken and blood running down her face and between her thighs as he forces the knife inside where he has been, until she is discarded on the floor, sweet voice gone forever, and Cullen kneels in his cage, even Chant gone from his mind as he stares at golden hair turned red, turning brown with clots as the light fade from her eyes and laboured, whimpering breaths finally stop.

One of the ghosts is on his knees, an older, broader mirror to the boy in the cage, watching his first love die in pain and violence. He stares at a nineteen year old who has endured more than anyone should and stayed strong. He sees how broken the soul is becoming, he has already watched the hardened, cold creature this man will become, worked backwards through a life of injustice, of turning a blind eye where none should be turned. In every incarnation he has reviled the man before him, hated the weakness that drove him to be worse and worse. Now he sees what that man has seen, what he has endured, now his brain is no longer trying to hide the truth of what happened to him and he has fallen to his knees in awe of himself. His companions stand, a hand on each shoulder, whispering to him of love, of acceptance, of how proud they are that he was the last one standing, and now he can hear the shouts and the sounds of battle, and he knows the Wardens are near. Soon it will be over, and only just beginning and he stands, walking through the cage as though it were not there, and places a hand on the shoulder of the boy, standing with him until the purple cage disappears and he can finally sleep.


	10. How Do I Love Thee?

The balcony was always warm. He woke from the dreams, shivering, clammy sweat clinging to his body, heart racing and often with tears running down his cheeks, but it was always warm, the sunlight streaming across his face, the heated wards muting his cries, and always, always, warm hands in his. 

With Evelyn by his side, he had watched the fall of Kirkwall, stood in the square at the Chantry exploded, ash and debris raining down on the city, crushing and burning the innocent as well as the corrupt, watching the abomination as he gazed on the destruction he had wrought without feeling or compassion. He had felt the ground shake beneath him as everyone around him struggled to maintain their footing and those who fell while fleeing were crushed beneath the feet of panicked citizens. Unseen and unheard they observed as Hawke chose to side with the mages, protecting the innocent once again, as she begged Anders to say it was a dream, an illusion, that he had not betrayed her in the worst way possible, making her an accessory to the murder of hundreds of people, as she thrust the knife into his back and so killed part of herself. They followed her to the Gallows and saw the madness Orsino had been driven to, the grotesque use of dead bodies to create a monster driven by blood magic. They watched as Meredith spewed her bile, as he had finally truly seen what she was, wielding the red lyrium sword as she called demons into bronze statues. They saw the moment he took up arms against her, eyes opened, unable to countenance such abuse of power, following Hawke into battle, a templar replacement for the dead mage. He remembered the shame, the agony that drove him to fight a woman he had seen as his salvation after Kinloch Hold, a woman whose clear vision he had held on to until it disappeared into paranoia. When it was done the square before the Gallows ran with the blood of mages and templars alike and he was left adrift, nothing to hold on to. He had lived in Kirkwall longer than anywhere bar Honnleath, it was his home, it’s people were his people, he knew its back streets and alleys as well as the wide thoroughfares and avenues and he had betrayed it, led to its destruction. He had betrayed the mages in his care, deliberately closing his eyes to ever more abuses. He had betrayed everything he had ever wanted in life and that life lay shattered around him. Only a few years before, yet watching himself was like watching a stranger, one who had done nothing and everything wrong, who had done it from faith, from training and from a belief that the judgement of his broken mind was uncertain and he had longed for Meredith’s certainty to paper over the cracks in his soul. He watched himself and felt sorry for that broken man.

They went further back, a little at a time, time to process, to heal just a little and a little and a little. They watched as Hawke and her friends surrounded him, absorbed him as one of them, he saw earlier encounters, where he could not see them reaching out because he was so afraid of connecting with another person. He watched as templars he had been at odds with commended him, as mages he failed praised him and he felt pained and humbled and weak. With every dream she took him further and further, younger and younger, seeing with eyes of experience and hearing soft words of forgiveness, compassion and love falling from her lips and when he awoke it was to warmth and sunlight and her hand in his. 

\-------

Those hours on the balcony hardly seemed real as he stood in his office and gave his orders. The Inquisitor had sent word from the Western Approach, a keep in need of manning, a safe way across toxic sands to be devised by the artisans they had recruited and mystery after mystery pointing to Adamant Fortress and the missing Grey Wardens. When she returned he had a decision to make, one more dream, one more vision, one more nightmare. His dreams were less bothersome, his rooms complete and comfortable and Evelyn's enmity had melted over time. They had confided in each other, healing together. Perhaps good enough really was good enough, perhaps he could forego the last dream in favour of the fragile peace he had found. He would decide when she returned. 

The door opened and Evelyn’s messenger slunk into the room, smirking at him and tapping a piece of vellum against his leg. Final orders given he dismissed his officers to their duties and raised an eyebrow at his unexpected guest. 

"Another report so soon?" 

Dorian lifted the vellum and looked at it. 

"This? It's a list of desert herbs Elan asked me to find when I head back out."

Cullen growled at him. Dorian had arrived back over a week ago, carrying despatches too long or too sensitive to send by raven. Evelyn had ordered him home to rest, confiding to her advisers by hurried bird that a varghest had almost eviscerated him, she had healed him enough that he could travel home but under no circumstances was he to do anything strenuous once he got there. Solas had gone to join her, her dislike of him less important than Vivienne's total unsuitability for camping in a desert. Dorian had been fussed over and coddled by everyone from healers to kitchen staff and finally escaped to Cullen’s room where he confessed to being completely unprepared for such attention. He flaunted the healers instructions to carry nothing heavier than a letter by having a piece of vellum on him at all times, usually with something outrageous on it. Yesterday had been a recipe for varghest stew which he insisted would be his just revenge, the day before a very salacious extract from one of Varric's books that he had insisted on reading out loud during their chess game.

But as brash and dramatic as he acted in public, in private his face was drawn with pain and exhaustion, his wound sealed but still angry and red where it stretched from shoulder to navel, his dark skin underlaid with grey pallor. Looking at him Cullen was once again thankful Evelyn had sent him home and outraged that he had ridden all the way back, although he couldn’t imagine Dorian agreeing to a carriage.

He grunted and waved Dorian to a seat, deciding to work through more reports until his friend was ready to talk to him. He pretended not to see the flinch as damaged muscles protested at more movement and ignored the slight shift as if surreptitiously stretching his right arm, the one that was supposedly unhurt. Truthfully, he had been expecting Dorian since the message from Leliana about twenty minutes ago and since the mage was silent it confirmed what Cullen had known, Dorian had been stupid and he knew it.

“Leliana tells me your staff is currently in Dagna’s safekeeping until you are recovered.” He said it mildly, pretending not to see the annoyed look. “No doubt it will be returned with all sorts of upgrades and enchantments by the time you are ready to go back into the field.”

“I am not a child, or an invalid,” Dorian bristled with indignation. “That… that…  _ Harridan _ took it from me! I crafted that staff, I certainly don’t need that insane dwarf  _ tinkering _ with it.”

“Dorian, you adore that insane dwarf, and you know she’ll take good care of your staff.”

“As long as she doesn’t let her crazy elf lover near it.” He slumped in the chair and now Cullen was really worried. Dorian’s moods were often dark, darker even than Cullen’s truth be told, and he drowned his pain in wine more often than not, especially in Skyhold. But healing potions and wine are a bad combination and Cullen knows the shakes and the sweats aren't just from pain, he's felt them often enough himself. Without a thought he moved across the room to kneel beside Dorian’s chair, laying his hand on the man’s arm and leaning in towards him.

“Dorian, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” His face twists with the lie. After months they know each other so well. If there was truly nothing wrong he would brush Cullen off with a flippant remark about the Commander kneeling before him. If he didn’t want to talk he would have caused a scene and walked out already. That he was still here meant he could be persuaded to talk. He wished Evelyn was here. She dealt with Dorian and his moods effortlessly, drawing a laugh or smile from the darkest glower, lifting his spirits with her quips and gentle touches. Dorian was a tactile creature with those he loved, too many years of being starved of true affection leaving its mark and although they were almost the same age the mage seemed somehow younger and far more vulnerable. Cullen was not naturally affectionate, even with his family he had been restrained, but he knew how he appreciated the feel of Evelyn’s warm hand in his while he returned to himself after their dream journeys so he took Dorian’s hand, warming the chill skin with gentle circular rubs. Dorian’s eyes closed and his hands relaxed slightly, encouraging Cullen that he was doing the right thing. There was comfortable silence between them and Dorian looked almost at ease for the first time since he returned. Unusually, it was Cullen who spoke first.

“Talk to me, Dorian.” He murmured it and Dorian replied as if half in a dream, eyes still closed.

“I’ve fought Venatori, demons and dragons and some insignificant beast gets the better of me. And then Vela sends me home in favour of that apostate hobo.” He opened his eyes. “She was right too. I’m useless. I couldn’t even stop a woman half my size taking my staff off me and now I have to wait until I’m a good enough boy to have it returned.” His cheeks are flushed with anger and humiliation, this man who has never failed in magic or in battle, whose body has failed him when there is so much at stake and it’s obvious things are coming to a head. Cullen had no idea how to help him, afraid to say anything that would make Dorian shut down again, trying to be content just to listen when his instinct is to fix, to treat him like a wounded soldier with sentiments meant to be uplifting. But the part of him that is learning about himself realises that won’t help here, like Cullen, Dorian has no patience for platitudes, he does not want to be told that everything will be ok, that’s not what he needs. The people who know instinctively what others need, Evelyn and Bull and Cole, were all in the Western Approach and no one else is as close to him as Cullen. But he was afraid to damage his precious friend more than the world already has so he focused on the motions of his hands on Dorian’s. Finally, Dorian sighed and admitted the truth.

“I didn’t even notice the damn thing until it was almost on her, I didn’t have time to do anything but fling myself in front of it and hope for the best. We nearly lost our only chance of saving the world because I wasn’t doing my job. How would we survive without her? How would  _ I _ survive without her. The pain is bad, but it’s nothing to that thought. What would I do without her? And then she sent me back and I’ve been nothing but a burden on you, my… my friend, but I can’t seem to stop.”

“You’re never a burden, Dorian.” Cullen contradicted him gently. “Neither are you personally responsible for Evelyn’s wellbeing. Every one of you have been sent back with injuries, or left out of missions to allow you to heal, travelling with the Inquisitor is dangerous. There were other people with her and Evelyn is more than capable of watching her own back, as she’s proved time and again.” He chuckled. “Just because it’s your turn to sit it out doesn’t make you useless, in fact, that it’s taken so long for you to end up back here is impressive. And I would expect Leliana to be able to take just about anything off anyone. You’re braver than me even trying to resist her.” Dorian’s mouth curved slightly and Cullen knew he was winning. He felt a surge of pride in himself for not screwing this up, but more, far more, for Dorian. 

“You should laugh more often, Commander, it suits you.” The lightly flirting tone is reassuring now, the soft smile enticing as always. When Evelyn told him the truth he had briefly hoped… but Dorian never changed, never gave him reason to think he wanted anything more than what they had and what they had was enough. Most of the time. But the last few days, seeing Dorian brought so low, hurting physically and emotionally, he wanted to kiss all the hurt away, to hold him and keep him safe. His gaze drifted down to the exposed shoulder, a tightness in his stomach reminding him that he didn’t just want to help and protect the man before him. He looked back up to see Dorian watching him intently, aware of the changing atmosphere, the tension between them. Slowly, so slowly, as if afraid that Cullen would move away, Dorian leaned forward, his hand coming up to cup Cullen’s cheek, that soft mouth touching his hesitantly, as if asking a question and he could do nothing but surge forward in answer, moving in between Dorian’s thighs, leaning into a kiss that became deeper, wetter, their mouths moving together, tongues tangling as their hands roamed across shoulders, down arms, until Cullen pressed just too far and Dorian winced, gasping pain into his mouth. He stopped, ashamed as Dorian turned white and Cullen was reminded how close he had come to losing him, how close they had all come.

“Dorian… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have…” He stood and walked away, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling the flush of embarrassment. To take advantage of his friends weakness, to force himself on the man when he was vulnerable; he looked back at Dorian who still sat, trying to catch his breath. When he spoke, his voice was empty, his face blank, a slight flush in his cheeks. He pushed himself out of the chair, in spite of the pain that flashed again across his face.

“Commander,” The formality in his voice cut straight through Cullen’s chest because he knew it concealed hurt and rejection and the fact that Dorian was so familiar with both was unbearable. He watched him walk towards the door, head high, back rigid and for a moment was frozen, just for a moment. Then he realised, if he let Dorian walk out the door, he could lose his friend, he might never again trust him. He threw himself at the door, turning with his hand out to stop Dorian leaving, the mage standing in the centre of the room, arms loosely folded across his chest, waiting to see what the Commander had to say, willing to hear him out, please let him be willing to hear.

“Dorian, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, I…” he trailed off, unable to think of a single thing to say that could excuse his behaviour.

“Commander, believe me, you wouldn’t be the first man to get carried away in the moment. If you would let me past, please.” He moved forward, challenging Cullen’s position in front of the door and he wanted to move, wanted to let him walk out the door, despising him, because it would be easier. But for months he has fought himself, searched for answers to who he is and what he wants and what he wants is Dorian. And what he can’t stand is the thought of Dorian walking out and never knowing how he feels.

“Dorian, please let me speak, please.” He stepped forward and Dorian stepped back. He felt sick but he wanted the man to know the truth, to choose, even if his choice was to walk away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He holds up a hand as the other man snorts and looks away. “I shouldn’t have done it now, when you’re vulnerable, when you’re in pain. I should have done it a long time ago.” Is disdain falling away? He looks startled, confused. Does he understand?

“I should have told you how much you mean to me, I would have. But I thought you were with Evelyn, and then I hoped you might see me but nothing ever changed and I have nothing to offer you. I don’t deserve anyone like you. But I should have told you, let you decide instead of hiding.”

Dorian frowned. There was something surreal about hearing those words, as if they were so far from reality they had no meaning. It didn't make sense, that the Commander would be speaking like this. Nothing about this makes sense. So he gabbled the first thing he could think of, the thing that spins in his brain whenever they are all in Skyhold together.

“You look at her like the sun shines from her eyes.” He hadn’t imagined it, he knew he hadn’t, but Cullen laughed.

“So do you. So do most of the people here.” He lowered his hands, walking away from the door, sitting at his desk, head in hand, waiting for Dorian to walk out, for him to once again have spoiled anything good in his wretched life.

"Evelyn is… a miracle. And she’s helped me when she didn’t have to, she helps everyone she can, you know that. But you, Dorian, you’re everything, I can’t… I can’t tell you what you mean to me.” He didn’t look up, too much of a coward to watch Dorian walk out the door instead he missed him walking towards him, until he felt the hand on his shoulder. In a daze he looked up into storm grey eyes, waiting passively as full lips descended on his and strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, for a moment Dorian pulled back, whispering,

“You stupid, ridiculous, wonderful man.” Then there were no words, nothing but touching, kissing, exploring each other as the world outside faded away.

\-----

The gate guards told her Dorian had been seen heading to the Commander’s office so as soon as she handed Niblet’s reins to one of the grooms she ran to the stairs, desperate to see how he was. Two days clearing the rest of Griffon Wing Keep had been too long away from him, she had to know he was okay, see it with her own eyes. Cassandra was more than capable of overseeing everything in the Western Approach now the rifts were closed so she had decided to bring the latest reports herself, so she could see with her own eyes how Dorian was.

She barrelled through the door, not bothering to knock, and stopped. Dorian straddled Cullen’s lap as they kissed, both shirtless, muscles rippling as they moved together, completely oblivious to anything but each other. She thought they hadn’t noticed her precipitate entrance when they stopped and turned to look at her, the Commander blushing bright red but wearing that half smirk she had been told about while Dorian lazily waved a hand towards her.

“Lock the door on the way out, Inquisitor. We’re having a very important meeting here.”

She laughed, “About time too,” and made sure the other doors were locked before leaving and instructing the guards that the Commander was not to be disturbed, even if Corypheus himself appeared over Skyhold.


	11. Comfort

The mind is a strange thing, born in a mass of jelly alight with electricity and chemicals, it is the seat of art, of logic, of magic, of emotion, of love, of fear, of hatred, of terror. And yet, when faced with trauma, the mind will attempt to protect itself, to hide from itself, the truth sneaking out the edges of the blanket the mind lays over itself in nightmares, in behaviours. Across Skyhold the myriad ways the mind protected itself and the trauma leaked out could be seen. In the tavern, Dorian was not the only one to drown himself in drink; the training yards were filled with soldiers pushing themselves further and further, Cassandra and Cullen at their head, each hoping exhaustion will stop them dreaming, that if they just train hard enough everything will be solved, struggling to cope with demons and darkspawn magisters. In her room Evelyn drowns herself alternately in paperwork or in The Iron Bull, who offers physical release that for a moment lets her forget the endless pain of her loss, sex and intimacy have long lost any importance for her, emotionless but enjoyable none the less, and Bull is happy to oblige, a passing bit of fun now his way of sublimating the pain of being named Tal Vashoth even if it saved his men, his family. Vivienne mourns a loss no less profound than Evelyn’s in silent contemplation while Leliana in prayer and Solas in dreams seek to hide from their past, their pain and the hard choices to come. Refugees seek sanctuary and peace and safety and Skyhold offers it, but Mara nurses Agatha, almost a year old now and starting to walk and talk, with blank eyes that forever search for Sam, lost in the attack on Haven, cut down by the sword that beheaded his father in front of his eyes, while Flissa will not step foot in the Herald’s Rest, the smells and sounds of the tavern a reminder of the little sister who blushed when the Tevinter mage flirted with her, who died of exposure in the snow on the frantic march that followed. The people of Skyhold grieve, but the Inquisitor brings them hope, every victory, every life saved brings comfort that one day this pain will end.

When Cullen faced Kinloch Hold, he did it with Evelyn and Dorian at his side. They walked the halls and saw horrors beyond imagining and he realised that even in his nightmares his mind had spared him from the worst of it, the blood and the fear and the pain soaked into the very stones, the broken body of Neria Surana, the mage he had silently adored, while stammering and stuttering through every encounter, lying before him for hours, before his rescuers came. They had talked to him while she lay there, open eyes gazing at him accusingly through the white film, mouth slackly open as if about to tell the strangers of his evil, his refusal to submit to save her life, his self-preservation more important to him than her suffering. He wanted to tell her that it wouldn’t have changed anything, he couldn’t have saved her. He begged them to kill everyone, rage and grief vying for control of him as they would for years to come.

He hadn’t truly seen them at the time, hadn’t known who was there though he learned later. The mage, Wynne, who had given him salve when his new armour rubbed; Alistair, who had been one of his only friends in training, who had been taken by the Grey Wardens the same week they were to take their vows and come to the tower. Now he recognised Rhiannon, the Hero of Ferelden and Alistair’s Queen and of course, Leliana, looking so very young and innocent without the hard edges a decade as the Left Hand of the Divine had given her. As the cage dissolved and they walked out of the Chamber, as Alistair poured water down his parched throat then half carried him down the stairs, the images faded and he felt the bed under him and the warm bodies on either side, still whispering how strong he was, how good, how wonderful, how loved, while warm hands held his.

Cullen gradually fell into a natural sleep, muscles continuing to relax as Evelyn and Dorian rubbed and kneaded them, talking to him even in his sleep, tears rolling down their cheeks for everything they had seen, everything he had endured. Evelyn was glad she had insisted they lie down together, her bed more than roomy enough for them all, knowing that this dream would be the hardest, the deep roots that needed torn out. She rose and poured wine for them both as Dorian shuffled up the bed so he could drink while still touching Cullen and she moved to mirror him.

“How are you?” she asked. Cole would have been her first choice for this, she had tried to convince them both that such an experience could be too much for their fledgling relationship, but Cullen was reluctant to be so vulnerable in front of anyone else. Initially he had resisted the need for anyone else, until Evelyn told him that  _ she _ needed the extra support if he didn’t and since neither of her assistants had been able to leave their patients, she needed help from somewhere. It seemed Cullen had told Dorian who had turned up at her door insisting to be told what to do and refusing to take no for an answer, declaring his position as their best friend reason enough to be included. It was the perfect solution but she still worried about them both.

“Apart from feeling like a self-centred brat, complaining about how Daddy doesn’t love me enough? I don’t know. Horrified? Sickened? Awed? Amazed? Completely and utterly in love?” He frowned into his glass as if the vintage offended him. “How are you, Mellita?”

“I have seen horrific things, but I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s…” she struggled to find the words. “I blamed him, Dorian. I blamed him for so much. And what I’ve seen, what he experienced, makes me ashamed of my prejudice. Do you know, Max and Killian never even considered trying to give up lyrium, we had a supply, they still took it every day, even when they distanced themselves from what the rest of the order were doing. To stop - it wasn’t just impossible, it was unthinkable, and I loved them both but the worst things they had experienced in their lives were the things they saw in Kirkwall after it was all said and done, they never went through anything like this.”

She fell silent and Dorian stretched over his lover to stroke her hair.

“You still miss them, Vela.” It wasn’t a question.

“Always. Max and I, you know we weren’t that close. Not till that last year in Ostwick. But he was my brother and I loved him. And Kil…” Her throat closed over every time she thought of him, she thought it always would, no matter how long she lived. She looked down at Cullen as he slept. “Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell him. Show him.” She felt the slight twitching against her leg that meant Cullen was stirring. When he was this relaxed after a session, he told her, he could hear her voice before he really came awake. She looked across at Dorian who was so used to Cullen waking abruptly, even without the nightmares, that he hadn’t noticed and a spirit of mischief seemed to take over. She spoke as casually as she could, hoping wine and tiredness would dull his perceptions.

“Do you remember sitting in your cabin in Haven, when you accused me of lusting after him?” He laughed slightly and Cullen tensed slightly. She surreptitiously stroked his side, either soothing him back to his semi-hypnotic state or just warning him to stay still, she wasn’t quite sure which. “So, tell me,” she said, archly, “Is he all stamina and no imagination after all?”

The reaction was all she could have wished for, Dorian spluttered, almost choking on his wine while Cullen had gone suspiciously limp, muscles too loose for true relaxation, while she giggled lightly into her glass. Just as he got himself back under control, Dorian looked down to see Cullen gazing up at him, amber eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Well, Dorian? I can’t wait to hear what your answer is.”

They couldn’t help themselves, the two of them rolling on the bed, howling with laughter, as Dorian declared they were both utterly abominable and deserved each other, lifted the bottle of wine and departed in high dudgeon, closing the door behind him with a fond smile and the intention of offering Sera help with some pranks.


	12. Before Adamant

The army had started marching. A journey of less than a week for a single rider would be three or four times that for the infantry and supply wagons. Skyhold seemed almost empty, even the non-combatants gone to support the army in their march. Those who remained made their own beds and cooked their own food and in the evening congregated together in the main hall. Most of the Inner Circle had already left, the Chargers first to back up Cassandra and assist Harding’s scouts, the rest with various parts of the army. Evelyn stayed, planning with her advisors while they waited for Hawke and Warden Stroud to join them. Varric, of course, was also waiting for Hawke and Dorian was fully healed but had already refused to leave until Evelyn and Cullen did, using his time to learn as much about Adamant and the Grey Wardens as he could and hoping to continue his talks with Hawke about her encounter with Corypheus.

Mari Hawke was nothing like Dorian had expected. She was short and stocky, with a plain, square face, brown hair and eyes and an earthy, suggestive laugh. Stroud was, by comparison, almost dully predictable, both for a Warden and an Orlesian and while Dorian appreciated their help and information the more they spoke the more he couldn’t help imagining their armies breaking against the walls of Adamant, hacked to pieces by the most dangerous fighters on Thedas, supplemented by an army of demons, led by an unkillable magister and his pet archdemon and the more he thought of the friends and comrades he would face it with, the more he became convinced they would not win, that the best he could hope for was to die fighting. His dreams were populated with demons whispering of the torments that lay in store for those he loved, offering him their lives, offering the power to bring those walls down and save Vela and Cullen if he would only submit to them. The more he heard and the more he dreamed the more he feared that the temptation would be too much, that he would submit to one of them in desperation, to save his loves, even knowing no individual demon could give him that power or keep them safe. He took to drinking more, hoping to drown out the demons voices when he slept, avoiding sleep by staying in the tavern as long as he could, the combination of sleep deprivation and alcohol making his fears and temptation both so much worse but he couldn’t stop. He began avoiding Vela, stopped visiting Cullen’s office, and distanced himself from those remaining in Skyhold, except for Cabot as long as he supplied the wine, of course. Part of him became resentful that no one seemed to notice, Vela and Cullen both so tied up in meetings with Hawke and Stroud they accepted his feeble excuses, too tired at the end of the day to seek him out as Dorian spiralled deeper and deeper into himself.

"Trouble in Paradise?" Cullen looked up and felt as if he had fallen through time and space, back to Kirkwall. Hawke never seemed to change, so comfortable in herself she never felt the need to. He remembered his dreams, all the times she had exasperated him, challenged him and he finally acknowledged that for everything he was today, it was Mari Hawke who had laid the foundations. Still, he thought, she was an annoying woman. 

"I beg your pardon?" He looked at the clock on the wall, the war room the only place significant enough for Empress Celene's present. He had lost track of time again and it would be too late to seek Dorian out now. He sighed as Hawke cleared her throat, drawing him back to the present. 

"I thought you'd like to know your mage friend is passed out in the tavern again." 

"Again?" He frowned, there were few mages left and fewer who would be drunk, or… "Dorian?" 

"The Vint? Yep. I was going to get Evelyn but Varric says you're the person to see. Although I did point out I don't want the poor man locked away for being a bit of a drinker. Once a templar and all that." The tone was mocking but her eyes were hard and wary and he supposed he deserved that given everything that happened with Anders. Another day he might have explained himself, but not if Dorian needed him. He grabbed the cloak he had thrown over a chair and pushed past her. 

"Why is Dorian passed out in the tavern?" And why did she say 'again'? "He's been studying Corypheus, he was meeting with you and Stroud…" 

"Not us. Haven't seen him sober since just after we got here. We talked for a couple of hours and he said he was heading to the library. Didn’t see him for a few days and the past couple of days he's been the archetypal barfly, first in last out. But tonight he can't walk out, some kid appeared from nowhere talking gibberish and Varric shushed him and sent me for you. And here we are." Cole was still in Skyhold? He thought, well it didn't matter what he thought, if Cole was there Dorian was hurting and Cullen couldn't even remember the last time he had seen the man, even just to play chess. 

They reached the main hall at the same time as Evelyn, who looked at them and simply said "Cole" before leading the way to the Herald's Rest with a frown on her lovely face. Sure enough, Dorian was in his usual corner, dead to the world and stinking of wine. Varric and Cole sat beside him and the rest slipped into the benches, trying to look casual. 

"No point in subtlety, Curly." Varric said sourly, "Everyone in here knows he's been under the table most of the week." 

"Everyone?" Evelyn’s voice was smooth, it carried across the room and the room emptied as people remembered important tasks they had far, far away from the Inquisitor. Cabot started to edge towards the basement but one imperious wave had him coming over like a man walking to his own execution. The whole of the Inquisition had heard Evelyn in her tempers and Cabot knew that temper was about to land directly on him. 

As Evelyn began haranguing the bartender, Cullen and Cole draped an oblivious Dorian over their shoulders and moved towards the door. She stopped long enough to look at Cullen and say, "my room," before continuing her verbal assault on Cabot, his barmaids, the rest of the bar's clientele and anyone else who hadn't reported Dorian's state to her, including Hawke and Stroud. Cullen winced and told Cole to get a move on, eager to escape before the Trevelyan temper met the Hawke attitude and the whole place exploded. Halfway across the courtyard they heard Evelyn’s voice suddenly escalating as the door opened to let Varric out, shepherding Cabot and Stroud away from the natural disaster occuring inside. The cold air brought Dorian too a little and meant he could walk with help so Cullen focused on getting him up to the Inquisitor's room and into her bed. 

"Thank you." He said to Cole, grateful the man was far stronger than his slight form suggested since Dorian was taller than Cullen and well muscled into the bargain. The spirit nodded.

"Can't help. Can't save them. Can't resist empty hopes. Can't lose them. Can't say yes, can't say no. Always useless." 

Cullen nodded and Cole vanished. Silently he removed his cloak and armour before he stripped Dorian to his smalls. Warming water beside the fire, he gently wiped the wine-soaked sweat away and covered him with blankets. He was stoking up the fire when Evelyn entered with a pitcher of water and a plate piled with bread and cheese and cold cuts. She put them on the bedside table and waved Cullen out to the balcony, adjusting the wards so they didn't freeze. 

"Well she's just a fucking delight," He didn't have to ask who she was talking about, he'd known Hawke for too long. 

"She's an acquired taste." 

"She's a bitch. Apparently it's not her responsibility to tell me the mage I thought was meeting with her was drunk instead, he's not one of her people for her to look out for." 

_ Fuck!  _ "So, ah, what did you say to that?"  _ Please don't have said it!  _

"I told her Dorian certainly wasn't one of hers but in Ostwick natural decency would compel someone to raise the issue."  _ Thank the Maker!  _ "And then I told her that I'd take it as a blessing from Andraste that since Dorian was 'one of mine' he was only shit-faced in a corner and not out blowing up Chantries and starting another war." 

_ Fuck!  _ Cullen groaned, covering his face as he tried to absorb the implications of Evelyn pissing off the closest thing they had to an expert on Corypheus. She at least had the decency to look ashamed and hopefully Varric was doing damage limitation and not still hiding, but the woman who could calmly take on anything Corypheus could throw at her turned into a Mama Bear when any of her cubs were threatened, and Dorian was her favourite cub. 

“I know, I shouldn’t have. As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t, she looked like I’d stabbed her. It might have hurt less if I had.” She didn’t enjoy upsetting people and he knew Hawke was one of the most frustrating people in Thedas but she had loved Anders and from what Varric said she had never forgiven herself, not for her part in his plot and not for killing him when she discovered it. Evelyn wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ll apologise. As soon as I know Dorian is ok.” 

“I think Cole was trying to tell me what was in his head. I’m not good at the cryptic messages, but I get the impression Dorian has decided we’re walking into something at Adamant that we won’t walk away from and of course since he can’t singlehandedly find a way to save us all he’s feeling useless.” He loved the man, was starting to realise he might be  _ in love _ with him, but Dorian’s implicit belief that he could find the answer to everything in a book and if he couldn’t he was an unmitigated failure was frustrating to say the least. “And I think demons have been approaching him, offering to save us. But I don’t understand how getting drunk and letting his defences down is going to help?”

She looked at him, blankly.

“I mean, I know Dorian drinks too much, but if he’s being targeted in his dreams, surely…”

“Are you sure you were a templar?” He’s not sure what she’s talking about and she realises he’s confused.

“Alcohol dulls the senses, it also dulls our mana pool. Most mages, especially powerful ones, have a nightcap or two before sleep, makes it harder for the demons to find us, makes it harder for us to hear them. Of course, it’s a poison and an addictive one at that, healing potions can’t counteract it, they can only deal with some of the aftereffects and eventually the damage is too great even for the strongest potions or spells to fix. But in the Fade, it makes us a little more like normal people. Unfortunately, Dorian is not only an extremely powerful mage, he has an alcohol problem anyway and a massive inferiority complex.”

“I didn’t know.”

“All the knight-commanders know, their captains and lieutenants are supposed to as well. Another example of Meredith Stannard’s shining practice. Lotus essence does the same but it’s even more dangerous and addictive and much more difficult to get a hold of.” She looked over at the sleeping mage. “I want to hug him and kiss him and tell him everything will be fine. I also want to punch him and frighten the life out of him so he’ll never touch another drop. And then I want to find Halward and Aquinea Pavus and strangle them both.” She sighed. “But instead I’m going to cleanse as much as I can out of his blood, lecture him a little so he feels hard done to and then leave you to make it all better while I go and apologise to Hawke.”

Cullen waited on the balcony until Evelyn left a wincing Dorian and made her dramatic exit. He had to get himself under control, as frustrated with himself as he was with Dorian. They couldn’t prioritise personal things given what was at stake but it sounded like the issues were not only personal and Dorian couldn’t try to carry everything on his shoulders. But he had been chewed out by the Inquisitor already and if Cullen knew Evelyn she might have cleared the alcohol but he bet she had left Dorian with at least a bit of a hangover. Time for him to take care of his lover, assuming he would let him.

He walked across the room and felt alternately guilty and defensive at the wary look Dorian gave him. He poured a glass of water and handed it to him wordlessly, picking the bits of meat he knew Dorian preferred and cut thin slices of cheese. He had noticed apples in a basket on Evelyn’s desk so he collected one and sliced it beside the cheese. He sat on the bed beside Dorian and placed the platter before him, refilling the water for him and waiting for him to say something while Dorian nibbled and sipped, grimacing at whatever pain or nausea Evelyn had left him with. Cullen moved to the top of the bed, wriggling his way behind Dorian and gently massaging his temples, running his hands through Dorian’s hair and down his neck, finding knots to work them out as Dorian had done for him many times before. Finally, Dorian laid his head back on Cullen’s shoulder with his eyes closed and sighed.

“So tomorrow will you chew me out and Vela feed me and massage my back?”

“Why do you call her ‘Vela’? I’ve always wondered.” 

He could almost hear Dorian’s smirk. “She told me none of her nieces and nephews, or well her kids I guess, could say Evelyn and most of them landed on Vel or Vela. Then one day she was bemoaning my supposed childishness and I started calling her Vela. It just stuck. She told me her brothers used to call her Puss but she was so sad when she told me I didn’t want to push it so I’ve always stuck to Vela.”

Cullen nodded, “Max told me, she used to climb up to steal the cream like a little cat.”

Dorian hummed, “Were you and Max...?”

“No.” Was that too abrupt? “We were friendly, it might have gone further but I had to leave and he was going back to Ostwick. I didn’t even know he thought of me that way until Evelyn told me. At the time I was too wrapped up in what was happening. Evelyn would probably be more my type anyway?”

“Really?”

“Really. I like people, not men or women particularly, just individual people. I didn’t know Max well enough, maybe I would have changed my mind, but at the time it didn’t even occur to me.”

"Why didn't you go after her?"  _ Why would you choose me?  _

Cullen laughed. "Because she hated me? Because she's the Inquisitor? Because I'm an ex-templar and an addict whose only skills are swinging a sword and planning battles?" He paused, when he spoke again his voice was low, sending shivers down Dorian's spine. "Because a handsome, talented, powerful man walked into a room and captivated me even when he was pissing me off?" He punctuated his words with firm kisses down Dorian's neck, massaging hands becoming softer, roaming, tracing firm muscles. "Because you were there every day, at that chess table, even when my hands were shaking, when I couldn't contain my anger, when I couldn't control myself, you were there. You didn't criticise or coddle, you didn't ignore my flaws, you told me when I was being a dick, argued and laughed and flirted regardless. You treated me like a person, Dorian. Not a templar or a Commander, not a mage-hating threat or a pathetic addict or a military genius or a broken thing, like a person. I couldn't remember the last time that happened. You are a miracle, Dorian,  _ my _ miracle."

There was silence as Dorian turned in his arms so he could look in Cullen’s eyes, storm grey meeting honeyed amber, his face serious. 

"In Tevinter,  _ this _ isn't… You… you take your pleasure and move on…" Cullen brought his hands to hold Dorian's face. 

"I don't want to move on. Not from you."

"But, what if…?" Cullen placed a finger on Dorian's lips, silencing him. 

"I survived Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and I was alone and empty and I'll go to the Void before I let Corypheus beat us now I have you!" 

He drew Dorian down to him, sliding them both flat on the bed, Dorian above him, straddling his legs. The kiss started soft and sweet, a promise and a declaration, but as he felt Dorian's body pressing on his, felt the movement of hard muscles under his roaming hands and the equal hardness barely covered by his smallclothes, he pulled the other man flush against him, unable to get enough of him, his taste, his smell, the feel of him moving against his body. Dorian pulled at his clothes, desperate to feel skin against skin, the two of them shifting together, moving tunic and leggings out the way, kissing, devouring each other, two men starved for affection, for connection, for so long, unable to get enough of each other, unwilling to let go. Cullen twisted, swapping their positions until he leaned over Dorian, pressing down on him, and began sucking and nibbling along his jaw, nuzzling the hollow behind his ear, nipping in at the crook between neck and shoulder, working his way down across his smooth, muscled chest, drinking in the soft sighs and groans, the hitch in his breath when he suckled at one erect nipple, as he rolled the other between finger and thumb, switching side to side, licking along the edge of his pecs, trailing fingers down the curves and grooves of his abdomen, following them with mouth and tongue, dipping gently into his navel and drawing out a wriggle and a laugh that turned into a sigh as he moved down, nosing along the line of his groin and dropping soft kisses along Dorian’s hard cock, feeling it twitch under his mouth, feathering touches down his thighs and feeling the tension as lust builds. 

His touch stays light as he watches Dorian watches him, they keep eye contact as Cullen takes him into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip, smoothly massaging up and down and around, watching for the moment when Dorian can no longer keep his eyes open, when his head falls back as he loses himself to the moment and that’s when touch deepens, sucking and swallowing, running his tongue along the slit, licking pearls of sour saltiness from it, still watching as Dorian disappears into the feelings Cullen is creating, feeling the tension building through his body, his back arching, hips tilting as Cullen draws him further in, deeper still, Dorian filling his mouth, Cullen surrounding him with moist heat as soft fingers cradle and stroke his sac, pressing into his perineum, drawing moans and whispered pleas and felt an electric surge that ended with his fingers dripping with warm grease, an encouragement to move further back, slipping a finger inside, then two, stretching and soothing, seeking and massaging the soft bump that makes Dorian writhe, makes him moan Cullen’s name in his rich voice, beautiful face twisting, chest heaving until finally he comes, pouring himself into Cullen’s mouth as he swallows everything down, drawing out his orgasm until Dorian lay limp, boneless, and his eyes opened, drawing Cullen back up to him, the taste of him still on his lips as they kissed deeply, as Cullen murmured endearments, telling him how wonderful he is, how beautiful, how loved.

They lay side by side, content, lazy caresses across heated skin, gentle affectionate kisses shared between them. Dorian smirks and his kisses become more playful, hands sweeping over Cullen’s body, slapping him away as he tries to reciprocate, pushing the golden warrior onto his back and sitting atop him, positioning himself carefully and sliding back, feeling the slick, hard tip ease inside him, shifting slightly as he moves, tensing muscles and feeling the twitch and gasp that accompanies them, until hips meet and he leans back, spine flexing until he can feel Cullen’s balls in his hand, stroking them, moving them together and individually, reaching just far enough to press gently behind them before moving up to where they join, fondling where their bodies meet as Cullen thrusts inside him, skin slapping as they move together, faster and harder, Cullen pulling Dorian down into a crushing kiss, tongue plunging into his mouth as he drives his cock into him, seeking his prostate again, neither of them slowing as they fuck until Dorian pulls up, crying out in Tevene as he comes again, spurting his seed across Cullen’s belly and chest, the sensation of slick, wet heat driving Cullen over the edge and he empties himself into his love, calling his name as he spilled, pulsing again and again, until Dorian half fell off him and they just lie together in euphoria.

Eventually, Cullen roused himself enough to move, ignoring Dorian’s sleepy protests as he cleaned them both and refilled the water before climbing back into bed and snuggling down. He drew Dorian into his arms and as sleep took him he sent a silent thanks to the Maker for the man beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a girl who likes guys, the sex between my boys has taken me ages to write because I'm as far from an expert as it gets and I apologise if it's not as it should be, but I just couldn't not at least try.


	13. After Adamant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise now.

It was one of his favourite memories, lying together on the bed in the inn room drinking, telling each other their deepest, darkest secrets, their fondest memories, stupid jokes and any random thought that made it’s way through the drunken fog of alcohol and decadently expensive chocolates. They had returned to Skyhold with massive hangovers and Vela had braved the wrath of her advisors by telling them to fuck off until she’d had sleep, food and a bath, not necessarily in that order. 

Since that night they had barely been apart, mission after mission taking them across Orlais and Fereldan, chasing any lead that might point to Corypheus, sharing a tent in the field and a bed in Skyhold when conversations carried on deep into the night. They had celebrated victories and commiserated defeats and dead ends together and he thought that there had never been anyone in the world he loved as much as he loved her, not even Cullen. She was the family he had never had, the family he should have had. She had even had Leliana find out when his birthday was and thrown him a small party in her quarters, only the Inner Circle allowed, no fancy clothes, no politics, just a quiet party with his favourite foods and wines and a big box of those Antivan chocolates he couldn’t resist. As well he wasn’t a maudlin drunk, he would have been sobbing into his wine with the absolute perfection of a ‘family’ party with the people who had quickly become just that.

“We really must order some more of those chocolates, Vela, darling.” he said, working through the pile of notes beside him, searching absently for a note he had made earlier on fade injuries before matching it to one of the books lying scattered across the bed. There was a heavy thump at the door which made him frown, he hadn’t expected anyone to disturb them for another hour or so. “If that’s another message runner, I’m going to set fire to them, and whatever pointless inanity they’re carrying.” He headed to the door, careful to keep his notes from Evelyn’s side of the bed.

He opened the door to see Cullen standing there, a bundle in one hand, tray in the other, about to hit the door with his elbow again. Dorian relaxed a little, exchanging a kiss for the tray which he sat on the little table where the three of them often ate together. He appreciated Cullen’s determination to take care of them both, but right now Dorian just wanted to be left alone with his research. Distractions did nothing to help them and he still hadn't found what he needed. 

Cullen sat at the Inquisitors desk, moving more papers and books out of the way to give a surface for laying down the chess board he had carried. He set it up carefully, the pieces exactly where they had been before he gathered everything together to bring it up the stairs. He opened the wine and poured it into the crystal decanter Celene had sent Evelyn after the ball at Halamshiral and placed it beside the tray.

“Are we expecting company?” Dorian drawled, barely lifting his eyes to the Commander before turning back to his book.

“I brought the bottle you had stashed behind the most boring books in your alcove, I assume you wish it to breathe."

"It's a '16, from northern Rivain, I  _ was  _ keeping it for a special occasion." 

Cullen ignored Dorian's hostile tone, later they would talk about it but not now. The board set and the wine poured, he couldn’t avoid her any longer. He looked across the room to the massive bed, one half cluttered with Dorian and all his books and notes, the other half containing only the still, unconscious body of Evelyn Trevelyan.

The journey through the Fade had been hard on them. Cassandra had returned with a dislocated shoulder and burns down her left side, Cole seemed physically unharmed but terrified, spending hours with Solas and nowhere to be found the rest of the time. Hawke was mourning her friend Stroud, staying in her room and speaking only to Varric, healed of the broken leg she had sustained in escaping the Fade but reluctant to deal with anything, even when Cassandra and Cullen both begged her to take the lead while the Inquisitor was indisposed.

Indisposed, how he hated that word. Josephine used it constantly, assuring their noble visitors, merchants and diplomats that the Inquisitor would be back in full control very shortly, using the victory at Adamant and the need for the army to rest before their next move as an excuse for Evelyn’s absence. But it wouldn’t work for much longer, already whispers were starting in Skyhold that the Inquisitor had not been seen in the fortnight since and they couldn’t keep it quiet indefinitely. Evelyn had been too visible, too involved to suddenly disappear without comment.

The nightmare demon had one last attack in it before Stroud destroyed it in a suicidal delaying tactic to save the rest. Dorian had gone through the rift first, prepared to take out any foes in the area before Cole brought out the injured Cassandra. There had been none, only Inquisition forces mopping up the last remnants while others cleared the debris and set up camps. Cullen had seen them emerging and run straight to Cassandra, throwing lyrium and elfroot potions to Dorian on the way past, taking the woman’s weight off the slight boy-spirit and shouting for the healers. His relief as Hawke and Trevelyan staggered through turned to horror as a giant, hairy arachnid leg followed after, knocking both women flying before the rift slammed shut, severing the limb. When the chaos settled Hawke had a shattered leg and the Inquisitor lay unconscious, blood seeping from a wide gash in her temple. The wound had been healed but the damage was deep, internal bleeding causing compression of her brain that was too delicate to be magically healed. They had done everything they could in the field then brought her back to Skyhold where she had lain in this bed for four days now, unresponsive to anything, washed and changed and fed by healers coming in every few hours while beside her Dorian was slowly killing himself. Only time would tell if she would ever wake.

Cullen knew Dorian blamed himself. He had gone through first, on Evelyn’s orders, to protect their injured comrade. It was a sound tactical decision, one he would have made himself. Hawke, Trevelyan and Stroud were more than competent and Dorian was needed ahead in case Adamant was still swarming with Wardens, Venatori and demons. Cassandra had needed healing and there were other considerations too, a situation he was leaving to Leliana and Solas at the moment, until Evelyn woke. He and Dorian both rejected the idea that might never happen, she would wake, she would be as brilliant and as wonderful as ever. No other possibility was acceptable. In the meantime all he could do was look after Dorian and wait. 

When the healers came, Dorian had to leave for at least half an hour, preferably an hour. He had tried arguing with them until Leliana tired of everyone indulging him and threatened to ban him from the room completely, with guards on the door day and night to make sure he stayed out. Now he left to pace the courtyard, appearing back at the door exactly 45 minutes later. Sometimes, Cullen could persuade him to spar, or one of their friends would distract him for a little longer, on one occasion Vivienne simply walked up to him and put him to sleep, directing The Iron Bull to carry him to his own room. When he woke, hours later, Cullen physically restrained him from storming up to her gallery, reminding him of the need for secrecy and his own need for rest. His mood had not improved in the two days since. 

"Any change?" He asked every time he walked through the door. Every time the response had been the same - none, give it time - and every time he snarled and went back to pouring through the books, desperately looking for something that would bring his Vela back to him. And every time, Cullen became more frustrated and angry with him and his selfishness.

“Dorian, stop growling at the healers, they’re doing their best!”

“ _ Kaffas _ , their best is worthless,  _ Amatus _ . Their potions are worthless, their platitudes are worthless and these Maker-forsaken books are  _ worthless! _ ” He paced around the room before shoving his pile of books and papers off the bed, burning his notes to ashes as they hit the ground.

“Dorian! Stop shouting!” Cullen grabbed a jug of water and upended it over the hot ash before it could scorch the rug. “This childish temper helps no one, especially not Evelyn.”

“And what is helping Evelyn,  _ Commander _ ? What are you, what are any of you doing to help Evelyn while she fades away on that bed? Nothing! You have no idea, no idea what she means to me. I can’t lose her, Cullen, I can’t!” Tears were streaming down Dorian’s face but Cullen’s face was stony and his voice was hard.

“What about the rest of us, Dorian? What about the world? Does that matter to you? You are not the only one hurting here but no one else is falling apart. What if she doesn’t ever wake up? Can we do this without her? What happens to the Inquisition?”

“I don’t give a fuck about the Inquisition!”

“Well, I do!” He was shouting now but he didn’t care. “This is all I have, Dorian. The Inquisition is all I have! You and Evelyn are all I have! I love you, Dorian, but if she doesn’t wake up, what will you do? Will you still fight against Corypheus, will you defend what she’s built, what we’ve built? Will you be beside me? Or will you disappear into the bottom of a bottle and leave me alone again?” He watched as Dorian refused to meet his eyes and snorted. “And there’s my answer. I can grieve alone, the rest of us can go hang, the world can go to the Void, because only Dorian Pavus matters and only your feelings are important.” Dorian had turned away, refusing to listen and Cullen just stopped trying. With a final glance at Evelyn, still and silent, he turned and left the room, and Dorian, behind.

Absently, Dorian got a towel and started mopping up the mixture of ash and water on the floor. He threw it out onto the balcony for someone else to get later and climbed back on the bed, picking up one of the books and flicking through it, unable to believe that Cullen had chosen his work over their best friend, that he could just put everything behind him and walk away. He stared blankly at the page before him, thinking over what Cullen had said, rejecting it out of hand but coming back to it again and again. Finally, he threw the book down in disgust and lay down, facing Vela and reaching out to hold her hand.

“I’m a selfish, horrible man, darling. But I don’t know how to go on, I can’t go out there and pretend everything’s ok. So you need to wake up, my love, because I have no idea what I’m doing and I might just have destroyed the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” As usual, he imagined her squeezing his hand, just lightly, so he squeezed back and brought her hand to his mouth, kissing it lightly before holding it against his cheek. Hand to cheek, he couldn’t miss the slight movement this time, couldn’t write it off as wishful thinking. He lay there, oblivious to the time as slight twitches became stronger movements, drinking in the sight of her responding to gentle strokes of his hand on her cheek until finally her chocolate eyes opened and she gazed sightlessly at him.

“Killian?” Her voice rasped, unused for so long.

“It’s ok, love. We’re here, we’re all here, darling.” She grasped his hand tight and fell into a natural, peaceful sleep. He lay and watched over her until the healers came and the word began to spread.


	14. Nightmare

_ Green. Grass, leaves, apples, broccoli, beautiful eyes, favourite dress, life, love. Not this, this is bile, mould, old bruises and algae suffocating the lake, the other side of green. The Fade.  _

_ Divine. Flesh? Spirit? Abomination? Can Divine be Abomination? Light from Darkness. She saved me? Why me? How did I leave? How did they stay?  _

_ Safe. Not safe. Hiding. Fighting. Endless fears, big fears, small fears. Safe. Not safe.  _

_ Helplessness. Temptation. Despair. Madness. Irrelevance. Parents. Self. Nothing. Dying Alone.  _

_ Failure.  _

_ I remember. I remember. I remember. What do I remember?  _

_ Killian? Dead. Dead and gone. Dream of a dream. Hiding in a Nightmare. I miss you. I love you.  _

_ Max. Eaten up inside. Nothing left. One last fight. One last goodbye.  _

_ Is it spiders? Something behind them? Flash of light and Faith is gone. Darkness weakened. Can't save them all. Can't save them both. Can't choose. Don't make me choose. Please.  _

_ Green. Bile, mould, bruise. Apple, leaves, grass. Life. _

"Killian?" 

“It’s ok, love. We’re here, we’re all here, darling.”

_ Love. _


	15. Lost and Found

There were dungeons in Skyhold. The outer cells were used infrequently, soldiers put there to sober up after drunken brawls usually, occasionally someone more important, awaiting the Inquisitor’s judgement. The inner cells were never used at all, before now. These cells teetered on a crumbling edge, jutting out over endless nothing, cruel winds shifting, freezing, blowing snow into corners. There were more important things for the builders to repair, empty cells at the bottom of everyone's list, the Nightingale happy for them to remain so. Especially now. Now one of the cells had an occupant, someone only a handful of people knew existed, someone whose residence was a secret to all but the three who stood before him.

He sat on the floor, leaning back against the only wall, chains circling bony wrists and ankles. His skin had the pallor of months of captivity, a year without sunlight, covered in grime, cast-off clothes hanging from a withered frame where once armour had covered firm muscle, his auburn hair lank and greasy, hanging over his face, hiding sea green eyes that made no attempt to follow his jailers as they moved towards him, releasing then renewing the barrier that kept him hidden and silent and unknown. One came forward, reeking of power and that  _ other place _ , lifting his chin to look at the blank face, pushing his power outward, searching for something, anything, that would save or condemn the prisoner, finding nothing.

Leliana watched as Solas stood and turned to them. “Still nothing, Spymaster. No response. As I told you before, I have found nothing suggesting he is anything but what he has claimed to be, the only way I could be more sure would be to return to Adamant and seek guidance from the spirits there, but it has become such a tainted place those who would remain there would most likely be unreliable and uncooperative.”

“Could you force them to tell you?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Eventually. But it would be both time-consuming and exhausting and…”

“We have not the time for this nonsense.” Morrigan folded her arms to glare at Leliana. “The armies must be assembled, we must reach the Arbor Wilds before Corypheus, else all we have done will be worthless. Kill him and have done with it, or have him healed and fed and cast him out, I care naught.”

“And if he is who he says he is?” The two women have had this argument over and over again. They both know that if the Inquisitor does not wake soon it may be over for all of them, whether Corypheus reaches the eluvian or not, and they know that if (when) she wakes, this man’s name may be on her lips.

“Then bring him to her and see if true love’s kiss will break the Inquisitor’s spell?” Morrigan’s lips twisted. Hardened, ruthless, the Left Hand of the Divine and Spymaster of the Inquisition, yet Leliana still believed in those old stories and songs, was still the romantic fool she was ten years ago. “I still do not know why you have brought me into this? You have a mage to test for possession and who has not found it, you surely can interrogate a half-dead creature like this without any help from me?”

Leliana looked over at Solas and inclined her head, watching as he opened the barrier only enough for him to walk through, closing it behind him. She waited for him to leave the dungeon completely, trusting him to avoid the main doors and the guards stationed beyond them, then turned back to the witch.

“If I was trapped in the Fade? If you thought I was dead, and then discovered I wasn’t - would you wish me quietly killed, or physically healed and cast out with the clothes on my back? Would you want to never hear of me, never know, always think it was a dream? Is that what you would want, Morrigan?” She huffed, as she always did when Leliana said something she didn’t want to hear, and crossed her arms.

“You are a romantic fool.” She knelt on the ground beside the haggard, silent man and reached out to move the hair away from his face, a gesture that came automatically after ten years of motherhood. “I presume you want him healed? Since none of Trevelyan’s pet mages are decent healers and you won’t want anyone else involved.”

“You used to insist  _ you  _ were no healer, remember?”

“I had an incentive to learn.”

“The Blight was not incentive enough?”

Amber eyes meet blue, a moment of shared amusement and affection.

“Following around a group of accident-prone misfits wreaking chaos across a country was only an incentive to set fire to things, usually Alistair. Besides, what need was there for me when a spirit healer travelled with us? Unfortunately, my son takes after his father in his ability to clumsily get into as much trouble as he can find and gave me plenty of reason to need healing skills without the luxury of having a judgemental old crone on hand.”

“You could have had one. You could have had everything you needed.” It’s an old argument, long past winning or losing, but Leliana has never been able to let it go.

“Do not start this again, or I and my healing skills will go elsewhere. I chose my path and had good reason. I am here now.” Morrigan turned away, her attention moving back to the prisoner. He had not responded to their conversation in any way, as still and blank as a statue. She placed her hands before his chest, pale blue light flickering in waves over him, visible only to Morrigan, showing wounds old and new. She healed the crudely bandaged knife wound in his side that had begun to rot, the concussion where he had been knocked out as he ran from the rift, Cullen about to take his head off before Dorian shouted at him to stop. He had superficial wounds on wrists and ankles from the chains binding him and she healed those as well, diverting her attention long enough to insist they were removed as she did so, before moving on to the parasites, chilblains and other uncomfortable evidence of days in a frozen dungeon. Finally she stood and pulled him to his feet as Leliana held out clean clothing and shoes. Silently, without any evident embarrassment, he stripped and redressed, allowing himself to be led from the cell into the bowels of the keep, following servants passages to a plain room where the sight of a real bed was eclipsed by the steaming bathtub and the food and wine laid out beside it. As the women turned to leave he finally spoke.

“Is she awake?”

Leliana laid her hand gently on his arm. “Not yet.” He nodded and turned away as she shut the door behind her. She had half expected Morrigan to leave, to return to her rooms and Keiran, but she waited in the corridor until the door was locked. She wrapped her arms gently around the red-head and kissed her forehead as Leliana murmured, “It’s in the Maker’s hands now.”

“When she wakes, he will be here waiting. We can do no more. Now come, little bird, Keiran will still be at his lessons and you need rest. The world can turn without you for an hour.” 

\-----

Bed rest was unbearable, the exhaustion of moving from bed to chair was intolerable, the headaches that came and went at irregular intervals, too often bringing nausea with them, were horrific. She snapped at everyone, driving them away one by one until even Dorian had to escape, fleeing to the library or the tavern for an hour or two before creeping back, willing to take the brunt of her wrath until she fell asleep again. In sleep she tossed and turned, unable to settle, half-formed shadows of the Fade and the Nightmare demon woke her too soon, dripping with sweat, sobbing with pain and fear, unable to explain the gaping void of loss within her, starting the cycle over and over again. Potions and tonics could only do so much, something more was needed, but she had no idea what that might be. As the days passed the headaches eased, she could sit up a little more each day, even walking to the balcony while Dorian hovered like a mother hen. Food began to stay down and her sleep became easier. The fifth day after she awoke, she sent Dorian away, with orders to eat, relax, sleep or do whatever he wanted, but not to darken her door until morning, finally aware enough to notice the signs of strain and exhaustion in her friend. As soon as he left, she summoned Cullen.

He walked into her room looking haggard and gaunt, worse than he had since overcoming the biggest part of his withdrawals. She noticed him glancing around nervously, before starting to move a chair closer to her. Instead she patted the bed beside her, noting the hesitation before he lay down beside her and took her hand in his. They lay like that for a while, peacefully enjoying the other’s proximity, not wanting to break the quiet, but finally she had to speak.

“I’m sorry.” Cullen started, turning to look at her with surprise and not a little concern.

“Why on earth are you sorry?” 

“Where would you like me to start? I’m sorry for worrying you all. I’m sorry for the soldiers who died. I’m sorry I let everyone down, that I couldn’t bring everyone back. I’m sorry I’m so frustrated I’m scaring all my friends away. But mainly I’m sorry because I think I’m the reason you only come here when Dorian leaves. He won’t tell me what happened, he tells me I’m imagining things, that I’ve not to worry. But I’m not imagining anything am I? Please tell me.”

_ Typical. _ He knew it was unfair, that Dorian probably hadn’t told Evelyn the truth because she would blame herself and to give her time to get better, but he felt like the mage had dropped him in it and couldn’t help the little flare of anger and resentment at being put in this position.

“You’re not imagining things, sweetheart.” He closes his eyes against the hurt in her face. “Dorian… didn’t cope well with your illness. None of us did, truly, but he behaved as if he was the only one who cared, he abandoned everything but searching for a way to wake you up, he pushed away everyone else. I tried, I promise I did, but…” He felt ashamed. He had abandoned Dorian when things became hard, had allowed himself to be pushed aside, had walked away instead of fighting for what they had. He felt her small hand cup his cheek and opened his eyes to see understanding and love.

“You can’t bear Dorian’s burdens for him, Cullen. You have the lives of hundreds of people on your shoulders. You have your own burdens, your own pain. There’s only so much you can give. Dorian is selfish and spoiled and you are stubborn and obsessed with duty and neither of you have ever really had anyone you could lean on or open up to, not about the things you’ve both been through. So he pushes everyone away and you disappear into your work because that’s the only way you both know to survive.”

“What can I do? I miss him.”

“Be honest. If he was wrong, tell him so. If you were wrong, tell him so. I suspect you’re both wrong and I know you’re both miserable.”

“I love him.” He whispered it. Sometimes he felt ashamed of how much he missed the other man, their lives so tightly wrapped together it was physical pain to be apart. He had thought, he had known, that Dorian felt the same, but somehow it wasn’t enough. As if she had read his mind, Evelyn spoke.

“Sometimes love isn’t enough. You’re not children, to be carried away by romance and hormones, free to dream of a fairy tale future together. You both have baggage that could rip you apart, that would have destroyed weaker men long ago. You need trust and honesty, you need to give each other space without walking away, to be together even when you are far apart. You need to decide, both of you together, what needs to change. Then you need to decide if that change is possible and if it’s worth it. You don’t owe each other anything but the truth, everything else needs to be something you truly want. If you can’t do that you will destroy everything good between you.”

He thought about that as she played with his hair, wrapping her fingers through his curls, silence so peaceful that Dorian returned in the morning to find them both asleep, curled into each other as if they could fend off the nightmares together. He looked at them, the two most important people in his life, his beloveds, enjoying the sight of them relaxed for the first time since before Adamant. Without a sound he left them to sleep. Breakfast could wait.

\-----

A week after she awoke, Evelyn was finally allowed to leave her rooms. Dorian and Cullen had been conspicuous by their absence since the morning she had woken with Cullen beside her and Dorian laying piles of food and fruit juice and coffee out on her table. They had eaten together then the two men had left and the guards reported them leaving on horseback, heading in the direction of the Hinterlands. A note told her they would be gone for a few days and no one had seen or heard from them since.

She wandered through the courtyard, enjoying the mild day and the chatter of all the people, most stopping to wish her well as she passed. She marvelled at Agatha toddling about, trying to persuade one of the kitchen’s cats to play with her. The shadows had lightened in her mother’s eyes, newly wed to one of the soldiers and her belly starting to show. They would never fully leave, Evelyn knew, those shadows would be with her forever, the memories of her first husband, her first child, they could never be replaced, but even in darkness there was light and the new life growing inside her would help her heal.

Unfortunately, the calm she found watching Mara and Agatha disappeared when she discovered Blackwall’s barn had been empty since their return from Adamant. No one knew where he went and no one had told her. Dorian and Cullen, Blackwall, she frowned and wondered how many other problems were being hidden from her. She moved through Skyhold, taking note of everything, checking on the rest of her Inner Circle, idly chatting with soldiers and healers and anyone who would speak to her. Cassandra knew something, Cole was hiding somewhere and both Varric and Solas were worried about him. Hawke had already left for Weisshaupt and as much as Evelyn had wanted to apologise to the woman she was relieved she didn’t have to deal with her right now. It took her time to go round the whole castle and left her exhausted so instead of heading to the rookery she went back to her room, asking one of the scouts to send Leliana to her. She drank a regeneration potion while she waited, grimacing at the bitter taste and glad she had fresh pears to it away. She paced the room, reluctant to sit because if she did she would probably fall asleep and nothing would be done until at least tomorrow. Thankfully, Leliana didn’t take long to appear at her door.

“You look terrible, Inquisitor, you have done too much today.” As she spoke, the woman chivvied her over to an armchair, sitting her down and bringing her water to sip. She sat opposite and looked Evelyn over, concerned at what she saw. “You must take care of yourself. You are needed at your best and you need to acknowledge your limits.”

“I need to be informed of what’s going on in the Inquisition, Leliana.” She spoke harshly, she hated to be coddled and now she was sick with worry about what had been going on while she had been ill. “Blackwall is missing, Cole too, Cass won’t meet my eyes. What is going on? I rely on you to share the information you gather, not keep it to yourself, you’re my Spymaster, not my nursemaid and I’ll warn you, I was a nightmare for my nurse.”

Leliana smiled faintly, she could imagine the young Evelyn driving a nursemaid wild with her antics, pushing back every attempt to rein her in. The smile faded as she mentally sorted through what she knew and what she wanted to tell her right now.

“I apologise, Evelyn. I received word that Blackwall has been seen in Val Royeaux and was apparently intending to attend an execution, since you were indisposed and she had business there, Josephine went to find out what was going on. At the execution, he revealed himself to be Thom Rainier, a wanted murderer who had been posing as Gordon Blackwall and he currently sits in a cell. Josephine tells me he has been tried and sentenced to death.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Evelyn was stunned. She trusted Blackwall, no, Rainier, trusted him to lead missions without her, trusted him on those occasions he went with her. He had been so happy at every bit of Warden history they found together, so enraged at the Warden’s betrayal, how could that all have been an act? “I need to see him for myself, I need to talk to him.”

“According to the healers, riding would not be good for you right now. In fact, such stress is not good for you either, we were all warned to keep things as settled as possible for you. Josephine spoke to him herself, you know they had been seeing each other?” Evelyn nodded, they had been discreet but Dorian was the king of gossip and anything he missed, Varric would tell her. “It is a long story, her letter arrived today, perhaps you should read it and decide if you want us to intervene. When we discovered he was in prison, Cullen wanted to have him brought here to be judged, I can make that happen, Josie refuses to give her opinion, she says she is too personally involved, but I know her, I know she does not want him to die. But read the letter, we will abide by your decision.”

Evelyn shook her head. “Have him brought here. He has been one of ours, he will be judged here. I’ll read the letter and hear what he has to say. Warn Josie that I may have him executed anyway, but for all he has done for us he is owed this. Bring him home, Leliana.” They were silent for a moment as they absorbed the possibility that Evelyn might have to execute a man she had fought beside, drank with, laughed with, trusted. 

“I can’t help you with Cole, I’m afraid.” The words broke Evelyn’s reverie and she looked over at the frowning woman opposite. “He is still here, he appears every so often. Something about the trip through the Fade terrified him. Varric and Solas have been trying to help, in their own ways, but you will need to speak to him yourself to get to the bottom of it, I’ve been keeping out of it. And of course you know about Cullen and Dorian’s difficulties.”

“Hopefully, difficulties they are fixing one way or the other at the moment.”

“Indeed, my scouts tell me they are in Honnleath, where Cullen grew up. As it’s a personal matter, I’ve left them to it.”

Evelyn snorted, “Best thing to do, really. It’s a personal thing, neither of them will let it affect the Inquisition, at least Dorian better not since that was part of the problem to begin with. Leave them to it, as long as they’re back by the time I’m signed off to go back out on missions, they deserve time to work this out, away from here.” She relaxed a little. “So, what’s Cassie hiding then, I’m hoping it’s something trivial like a new set of smutty novels or she’s finally found someone to share those romantic inclinations of hers? She was - shifty. She wouldn’t meet my eyes but I didn’t get the sense of it being anything horrific. Ha, if it was, I’m pretty sure she would have been up here the second I was awake, she’s not the kind to let things fester.” Leliana shifted uncomfortably on her seat. “Is it something serious? Leliana?”

“Not serious, not exactly. What do you remember of the Fade, Evelyn?”

She sat back and thought. “Not much. I know I got my memories back, I remember what happened at the Conclave. I know the Divine guided us, or was she a spirit? I don’t think I was completely sure? The rest is… impressions, partial images, some of them mixed up with dreams I’ve had, I don’t know what was real. The healers tell me it will come back in time. I was planning to talk about it with those who were there but Cassie’s the only one here right now and she really didn’t seem to want to talk about it so I thought I’d wait till Dorian was back.”

“Dreams? That would explain some things. There is something you need to know.”

\-----

She looked at him and he looked at her. Leliana tried to explain but Evelyn wasn’t listening. Whatever reason was being given for her being kept in the dark, she didn’t give a shit. Maybe she would later, maybe she would be angry with her friends for keeping him from her. Right now all that mattered was that he was here, he was alive.

He was thin, much thinner than she had ever seen him, even as a teenager he had the build that came from training in armour for hours every day. His muscles had wasted, his skin loose and pale. It made him look taller, somehow. She wanted to reach out and run her fingers through his hair, dark red against sea green eyes, so vivid they stood out, the first thing she had ever noticed about him. She had learned about his kind nature, his wicked sense of humour, his love of romance novels (she would need to introduce him to Cassie and Varric), all of that came later, first were the green eyes and auburn hair that stood out. She had avoided him at first, avoided all the templars, too afraid of the threat of tranquillity although her mentor, Lydia, told her no mage had been made Tranquil without specifically requesting it in almost one hundred years. But Killian had sought her out, bringing her a present from her brother. They had trained together, taken their vows together, and Max had given him a figurine of Andraste to give to Evelyn when he reached Castle Laedon. They had talked then, about Max, about his training, about her studies. At first they chatted casually when they met in the corridor, or the library. Soon they were seeking out hidden corners, meeting more and talking less. When she discovered she was pregnant with Ariana he had wanted to face the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander beside her, taking whatever punishment was meted out. Instead she went behind his back, plotting and manipulating everyone around her to protect her baby and her beloved. When he found out, he was furious, they had barely spoken for months, exactly as she planned, so that when their daughter was born she could request that Killian, as a friend of her brothers, should be the one to take her to Stefan and Faith. It took him time to forgive her, not for trying to protect their family, for the lies, for leaving him out of her plans. When she fell pregnant again, in spite of taking precautions, they stood before the statue of Andraste in the Chantry and spoke the vows of marriage, then they laid plans together. Killian took Aiden to Ostwick as he had taken Ariana. They had been together for years. When the Circles fell Killian had wanted them to collect their children and go to Rivain, where Evelyn would be properly revered. He went to Rivain to arrange everything, while she spent time with her family, then returned to the Circle, waiting for him, waiting for the promise that they could finally have a future together. Only days before he returned, the summons came to attend the Conclave. He joined them in the city and the trip to the Temple was filled with quiet plans and discussion about where they would live, about the little village where he had found a house for them, about the skills they would both need to learn, the guest bedroom Max had already claimed as his own.

All this passed through her mind as she looked at him, years together she thought had ended when the Temple exploded. She had mourned him, right up until this moment she had been unable to conceive of ever loving another person as she loved him. As she looked at him, she knew it was still true, whether he could forgive her for that year trapped in a nightmare, he was her husband and she loved him and she would give him whatever he asked of her, even if it was to walk away.

He watched her. She was thin, the softness of a life of research gone in whatever hardships the last year had brought her. The side of her head was shaved though only a faded scar remained of the jagged wound that had nearly taken her from him, just as they had found each other again. Her eyes were still dark pools, drawing him into their depths as they had done from the moment they met. He had never intended to be with her, to betray his best friend by seducing his sister, but Evelyn had captivated him. She wasn’t an easy person to love, she was manipulative and devious, used to having her own way and determined to get it. But she was funny and adventurous and passionate and meant everything to him. She had protected their children and him any way she could. For the past year he had held her in his heart, Evelyn and their two beautiful children had kept him sane. Maxwell had given into the fear, allowed hatred to fill his heart, blamed Evelyn for dragging them along with her, sunk deeper into darkness while Killian had tried to pull him towards the light.

In the Fade, Max had tried to kill Evelyn, lost to the madness and hatred, blaming her for everything they had endured. It hadn’t felt like only a year, it had felt like an eternity of fear and pain and at the end there was nothing left of his best friend, his brother. He had tried to protect her, he had cut down a man he loved to save his wife from having to kill her brother. And when she had to choose someone to leave behind, he had tried to persuade her to leave him, to allow him to pay the price for killing Max, to make sure she made it out safely, even if it cost his life. Instead, Stroud had pushed him through the rift, then the two women, and it had nearly been for nothing anyway. He had embraced imprisonment, had treasured the sensation of the cuffs against his skin, the first real sensations in a long, long time. He had appreciated how protective Leliana was of her Inquisitor, admired her willingness to do anything to protect her, even her willingness to kill him if she thought it necessary and he had waited patiently, knowing that she would bring Evelyn to him when it was time. And now she was before him, as beautiful and perfect as ever, reality more wonderful than the memories he had wrapped himself in. All he could do was drink her in with his eyes and hope this moment never ended.

Finally, Evelyn stepped towards him, bringing her hand up to rest on his chest and a dam broke inside him. Suddenly they were clutching at each other, holding tighter and tighter as if they could somehow merge until they could never be separated again. He was kissing her, running his fingers through her hair as she moved her hands all over him, reassuring herself that he was real, that he was here and he wanted to tell her that he would never leave her again. He would be at her side for the rest of their lives. As Leliana discreetly slipped from the room, he drew Evelyn towards the bed, unlacing their clothes and stripping them both until skin touched skin, hands wandering, reminding themselves of familiar touches and movement, their bodies moving together effortlessly, their knowledge of each other as endless as their hunger. He moved inside her, time enough for foreplay and games later, for now they needed to become one, to renew their vows to each other, calling out in joy as they came together, falling asleep still entwined in each other, one now and forever.


	16. Quiet Time

"There used to be a golem here, a deactivated one, it was here for years. We played around it, climbed on it. We used to put out birdseed so the birds could have a pretty perch to gather on. Queen Rhiannon activated it and it fought the Archdemon beside her. Then it travelled with Wynne, a spirit healer, and they fought demons and abominations together."

"The legendary Wynne, the healer who fought demons and abominations? I'd like to meet her." 

"She died. She was very old, even when she fought the Blight. I don't think you would have got on, she was very nearly the archetypal circle mage. Vivienne without the dry wit and fashion sense." 

"Fair enough, sounds dreadful. So what else were you thinking of showing me? I presume we're not here to look at places things used to be?"

"There's a lake nearby, I used to go there as a child, to think."

"Lead on,  _ amatus _ ." 

\--------

"It showed us things, terrible things, our worst nightmares, over and over again." 

"How did you survive?" 

"I had you and Ariana and Aiden. It showed you sometimes. It tried to break me, showing you with Dorian, with Cullen." 

"Nothing ever happened with them." 

"I know. I wouldn't care if it did. You deserve happiness, my angel." 

"Max?" 

"He was strong for so long. But it ate away at him, whatever it showed him. He stopped telling me, stopped fighting it."

"He blamed me." 

"The nightmares broke him. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't anyone's fault. He fed the wrong wolf." 

"Hmm, you and your sayings." 

"You love my sayings." 

"I love  _ you _ , I can live without the wisdom of the ages." 

"You'd better find some way to shut me up then." 

"Challenge accepted." 

\-----

“Is he asleep?”

“He is. I offered to teach him chess but apparently Dorian is already doing that.”

“Dorian teaches him to cheat. He’s obsessed with the man because he flashes his knowledge and his magic in equal amounts. Thankfully, the Commander reins them both in every so often. Wine?”

“Thank you. You seem at home here, Morrigan?”

“Here as much as anywhere. I am useful and Kieran is well cared for while I carry on my work.”

“How practical.”

“What would you like me to say? That I am comfortable here? That I have become fond of the Inquisitor and some of her friends? ‘Tis true, and yet insignificant. Do you wish to hear that I am glad to be here with you? That is also true.”

“And insignificant?”

“Never.”

“Alistair has contacted me. He intends to visit the Inquisitor to discuss several matters. He wanted me to tell you he knows you are here.”

“I suppose he thinks to meet his son?”

“I think he hopes.”

“I will think on it. I intended they would never meet, but things change.”

“You still love him?”

“Of course. And I still love you more, if you are fool enough to be jealous. Rhiannon was far more suitable for him, both as Warden and as Queen.”

“Leaving you to me?”

“Always. I gained by far the better end of that bargain, though they have learned to love each other, from practicality if nothing else. Now, enough gossip. We have little enough time and privacy, I suggest we make the most of it.”

“Your wish is my command.”

\------

"I don't expect forgiveness." 

"I'm not inclined to give it." 

"I accepted my fate. I didn't ask to be saved." 

"Neither did I." 

"Why are you here, Josie?" 

"I don't know."

\------


	17. Pestilence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for torture.
> 
> *edited* Apparently I quoted her wrong. I have pushy characters.

  1. _Safe home, mirror, all well. Return soonest. ET_
  2. _On way. Army follow. Many wounded. L_
  3. _K wounded. Healing well. Stays with army. C_
  4. _Rest well, heal. Love E._



_\-------_

So few people remained in Skyhold. The newest recruits, a handful of servants and nobles, children and whatever parent or caregiver was not still in the Arbor Wilds with the army. Evelyn spent her days with Morrigan, soothing her head and calming her dreams, trying to help her make sense of the thousands of voices in her head. Kieran sat with her, watching his mother carefully and Evelyn taught him how to see the lines of mana around her, how to draw on his own pool - amazed at how deep it was already - and talked him through everything she was doing. He learned quickly and both women showered him with praise at every opportunity. 

When Leliana stalked into the room and began kissing Morrigan whilst berating her in flowing Orlesian, Evelyn beat a hasty retreat. No doubt Cullen and Dorian would be similarly occupied, so she sought out Josephine, desperate for news of her husband. 

"When we left, all was well, Evelyn. Leliana received a bird yesterday that told us of a sickness in the camp but such is not unusual on a battlefield and the healers are well supplied. The least wounded are already on their way here."

"Thank you, Josie. Please go rest." The woman looked exhausted, they had ridden hard to get back as quickly as possible and managing the supply lines and logistics had worn on her. She nodded gratefully and left her office, Evelyn making a mental note to have trays sent to her advisors as soon as possible. With a short detour to give the order and collect her own lunch, she decided to hide in her room for an hour or so. Once they were settled she had no doubt she would be wanted in the War Room to discuss the next steps. Morrigan had some ideas but she had wanted to wait till the advisors were back to give her time to mull it over. Samson had been captured and would have to be dealt with but that could keep till the army returned to see justice done. In the meantime Leliana would be free to get as much information as she could out of him. 

She was dozing on the bed, book drooping in her hand, when the door crashed open. 

\------

 _One day_ , thought Cullen, _One day he won't be hiding from me when one of us gets home._ He understood why Dorian avoided public displays of affection, why he was afraid even though everyone in Skyhold knew they were together, but it would have been nice to see his face as he rode through the gates, hear his voice. At the mage's request Cullen waited in the War Room or his office to speak to Evelyn whenever they returned from a mission. The few times Cullen had been the one returning Dorian had waited for him in his office, or his bedroom. But one day, he promised himself, his beloved would be comfortable enough to greet him at the gates, to accept a hug or a kiss or just holding hands in public. One day. 

He walked up the steps to his tower. He wanted to run up them, to use every sense to reassure his heart that he was fine. Twice now Dorian had disappeared into the Fade, twice he had to wait impatiently to know if his love was safe, imagining him ripped to shreds by demons, an abomination possessed by one who could overcome even Dorian's stern will, or worse, never returning at all, trapped in the Fade as Killian and Max had been, no hope of rescue. Cullen’s nightmares were filled with such imaginings and only Dorian himself could banish them. He wanted to run, to drown himself in him, but days of hard riding and the small wound in his side held him back. He wished he had allowed a healer to look at it, it must be deeper than he thought to still bother him and it had begun to itch strangely. He would see Evelyn later, for now there was only one mage he was interested in. 

The mage in question was sitting, naked, at his suspiciously empty desk as he walked in, smug grin on his face as he watched Cullen lock the door behind him. 

"The others are already locked." He said, reclining back in a wide, angled, leather bound chair that certainly hadn't been here when he left, watching as Cullen walked towards him, cloak, breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, gambeson hitting the ground in turn, leather leggings deliberately and provocatively left in place. He smirked at the view Cullen presented, firm muscles flexing as he moved with feline grace towards the desk. He hid the shiver of lust, the picture of nonchalance, always playing the game, even with Cullen, never to be the first to let his guard down. Later that control would disappear as he lost himself in him, for now he simply enjoyed the display before him. He braced himself for the energy pouring off Cullen as he straddled him, mouth assaulting mouth, hands roaming, grasping, hips grinding down, lust meeting lust, desperate to feel skin, to reassure themselves that they were ok, they were whole, they were together. Hard cocks pressed and moved against each other through trousers suddenly far too tight, hands fumbled at laces, dragging Cullen’s leggings out of the way, moving freely. Dorian grasped them both in one hand, stroking them together, drawing silky moisture from tips to base, the other hand grasping Cullen’s buttock, digging in, pulling their hips together, as Cullen released Dorian’s mouth to suck his neck, his chest, his shoulder, carefully marking places that couldn’t be hidden, in the groove behind where jaw and earlobe meet, the shoulder habitually uncovered by Dorian’s armour, biting almost to pain before soothing with soft flicks of his tongue, teasing sensitive nipples and running light fingers down the sides of his ribs while Dorian moaned at his touch. He shuddered and almost whined as Dorian released his grip on their cocks, using the slight give of the chair and his own muscular strength to stand, Cullen still wrapped around him, and pushed his lover down onto the desk.

“I missed you, _amatus_.” It was his turn to run mouth and fingers across Cullen’s firm muscles. He briefly noted the bandage on his side as something to avoid for now, before working his way down to take him in his mouth, cupping and rubbing his sac as he alternated movements, light kisses and deep sucking, using his magic to chill his hand or pressing his perineum and sending flickers of electricity that made Cullen thrust up into his mouth for a moment before he shifted position, nuzzling into the side of his groin, kissing and suckling his balls as his fingers, now slicked with magical grease, circled with alternating pressure around Cullen’s entrance before pressing in, one, then two fingers, slowly, gently stretching, massaging tight muscle to loosen. He looked along Cullen’s body, once more sucking him to relax him for a third finger, calling more grease into being. The blond man’s head had fallen back, sweat putting the curl back in his tawny hair, teeth worrying his kiss swollen, reddened mouth as he lost himself in the sensations Dorian was creating through his body. Cullen was so tied up in calm and control that Dorian loved to watch him lose it, loved to be the one he gave that control too. They were the same in that respect, two men equal in their need to control themselves and the things around them, equal in their wish to give control over only for and with each other. He watched him as he entered his body, tight, warm, soft, slickness surrounding him, grasping him, pulling him in as if Cullen was as desperate as he for them to be one being, inseparable. They moved together, Cullen flexing his abdominal muscles to lift himself up, drawing Dorian towards him and kissing him deeply, mouths and hips joined, his tongue exploring Dorian’s mouth, moving more forcefully as Dorian thrust harder into him, pushing down, shifting until he was hitting his prostate every time, electricity that had nothing to do with magic coursing through him until he threw his head back to shout Dorian’s name, thick semen spurting out over their bellies and chests, the warm moisture shooting over him spurring Dorian on to his own peak, filling Cullen with his own warmth as he groaned his lovers name into his ear.

They came back to earth together, sweat slicked and breathing deeply, Dorian staying as still as he could until he softened enough that he slipped out of Cullen, both regretting the loss of contact as they clung to each other.

“Do _not_ disappear into the Fade again, Dorian. Twice is two times too many.”

He smiled, a true smile, not the usual sardonic smirk. “I would love to promise that, _amatus_ , but I never thought I would be there once, never mind twice.” He shifted, suddenly aware of the edge of the desk digging into his thighs, looking down to see deep red lines across them. “Perhaps we should take this upstairs. Besides, Evelyn and Morrigan have been helping me work on a different way of healing, I could have a look at that wound on your side?” 

Cullen groaned, “I don’t know if I can make it up there, Dorian. I seem to have left my legs somewhere on the road from the Wilds.”

“Come on, you big lump. There’s a tub of water, massage oils and enough food to stuff half the Chargers.”

“So why didn’t we go straight up there?”

“As I recall there was no actual discussion involved beyond the fact the doors were locked. Now move, I’m starving too.” He prodded Cullen towards the ladder. “Besides which, if you would take the rooms Josephine has set aside for you, there would be no need to climb a ladder to get to bed.”

“I’m too tired to argue with you.” He dragged himself up the ladder and across the room before collapsing facedown on the bed. Dorian followed him over and sat on the bed, happy just to gaze adoringly at his exhausted beloved. The bath could always be heated later and the food was nibbles and cold cuts anyway. He decided to delve the wound in Cullen’s side while he was relaxed and almost sleeping, then they could both sleep for a while.

\-------

Samson was a pathetic sight, greasy, bedraggled and covered in bruises, one eye swollen shut. He slumped on a chair, weighed down with shackles and watched the Inquisitor smile at him. 

“I take it you’ve finally noticed the sickness in your ranks, Inquisitor? You’re wasting your time if you think to get a cure out of me.” He was slightly unnerved by the smile. It wasn’t a knowing smile, or a smirk, it was a pleasant, friendly smile, the smile of someone welcoming a friend for tea rather than standing over a prisoner about to be tortured, a smile designed to lull him into a false sense of security and one he intended to resist.

“You mean the poison? Actually, Commander Cullen very helpfully brought a small sample for us to study. Red lyrium mixed with wound rot, death root, witherstalk and a few other things we haven’t quite worked out yet.” He tried not to react. Cullen had been his friend, had been kind even when he was on the streets, given him coin and even sometimes lyrium. But he had turned his back on the Templars, helped to all but destroy them. There was no room for weakness.

“Our Arcanist used the runes from your armour, you know, the ones that protected you from the red lyrium you happily fed to others?” Her tone was light, conversational, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, he would enjoy watching her break as she realised there was no cure, no antidote that would save her soldiers. “It’s currently helping slow the infection while we work out how to deal with the poison it was carried in. Luckily, Morrigan and Dorian are extremely accomplished mages and Morrigan now has all this friendly help, floating about in her head.” He couldn’t help the sour twist of his mouth. He should have been the Vessel, not that apostate bitch. “And of course we’re sending more to the army, they already have the design to produce their own but every little helps. We’ll still lose some people but unfortunately that is the nature of war, wouldn’t you agree?” She might as well have been discussing the weather for all the emotion in her voice. Was she insane? Was she trying to trick him into revealing something, or softening him up for the Nightingale, who stood behind her in silence.

“What do you want, Witch?” She would get nothing, he would endure anything, knowing how much suffering those she cared for would endure, how they would pay and he would be rewarded.

“A comfortable house in rural Rivain? With a ready supply of Tevinter wine and Antivan chocolates, of course. That was the plan but some silly person diverted me for a while so it’s been put on hold. In the meantime, I was going to torture you for my own amusement, Leliana’s only here in case you drop anything interesting while I’m doing it. It won’t save you in any way, but Morrigan’s pretty busy working on an antidote so she hasn’t much else to do just now.”

He scoffed, “You’re bluffing. You’re a healer, you’ve spent almost a year helping people in the most ridiculous ways and now you expect me to believe you’re secretly a torturer? I almost had some respect for you, Inquisitor.” He relaxed back in the chair. Whatever she was up to, she had misstepped. 

She smiled again, that friendly, sweet smile that made even her eyes light up, just as pain began to flicker up and down his arms and legs. Hot and cold alternated, the extremes of each prickling up and down each limb, in different patterns, at different times, the sensations growing until he felt his skin blistering, biting down to hold in screams, when it suddenly stopped. He looked down, expecting to see skin sloughing off burns but he was completely unmarked.

“It’s an interesting thing - I was told to research ways of healing people who had been tortured, I made quite a study of it. One of the things that made me good at it is the fact that I have virtually no empathy for anyone I don’t love. I also have an amazing memory and insight into the processes that create pain stimuli. It made treating Cullen more challenging, actually feeling something for the person instead of just focusing on what was causing the pain and ways to fix it. Of course, finding how to fix it means knowing how to cause it. I’ve never really felt like trying it out, but we have some time and I have ten years of torture methods stored in my head.”

She was terrifying. He had met people like her before, people who cared passionately for very few, who treated everyone else solely according to a moral code they chose for themselves. She would torture him, would subject him to the things he knew Cullen had been through, and others, she would listen to him scream for hours, days, weeks on end and never feel a thing. And if she could do it without leaving a mark, who knew how long he would last. She might never get bored with it.

As if she could read his mind, the pain started again. He stared at his hand, trying to convince himself it wasn’t happening, there was nothing to see, so there could be nothing to feel. His skin wasn’t being peeled in strips from each finger, shaved over the knuckles, nerves, muscle and tendons exposed to air as another strip began.

“Do you know, it’s possible for your bowel to twist?” The light, pleasant voice and it’s friendly smile promised that this would never end, that everything she shared in that conversational tone would happen to him in turn. “It gets knotted and nothing can go down the way. So everything starts coming up until you’re vomiting shit all over yourself, bile and shit burning its way up, into your mouth, sometimes people choke on it, drown in their own shit. It’s such a simple thing to happen. Simple to fix too, if you’re a healer.” She was crouched in front of him, rubbing her finger across the back of a hand that felt flayed, pain like lightning shooting up his arm. The muscles in his lower legs suddenly spasmed, calves and shins trying to cramp at the same time, stretching one making the other worse, unable to move them in any way that didn’t make it unbearable. He couldn’t hold it in, whimpering past gritted teeth, tears dripping down his face. Suddenly everything stopped, the lack of pain as overwhelming in its own way as the sensation of it had been, his bladder and bowel both letting loose as he collapsed down, only held in place by the chains.

“Of course, I have to wait for an antidote to this poison, especially since my husband had been affected as well as my darling Commander. I’ll be very bored while I wait, you’ll make a fun little pastime, won’t you, Samson? Of course, if they were to get better sooner, I’d probably have to give up our little tete-a-tete, I’d be very busy again. Why don’t we make a deal? I’ll come and visit you every day, whenever I can, it won’t be the same time every day I’m afraid although I know that’s very rude of me. And when Killian gets better, or when he dies, which frankly could take months since we’ve slowed everything down, I’ll put you on trial and give you a public execution. How does that sound?”

“Maddox developed it,” his voice was barely a whisper, his throat so tight from holding back screams, “There is no cure, there was no need for one.”

“No need to protect people who would be ‘useful’? I’m sceptical, to say the least. Ah well, I guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together then, I do look forward to it. I’m afraid I must rush off, things to do you know. I would get someone to clean you up but we’re rather understaffed at the moment. It’s a shame shit is even more acidic than piss, those burns won’t just be in your mind. Still, I’m told red lyrium burns too, so you probably won’t mind too much.”

With that she stood, turned and walked out the door, followed by the Nightingale, neither woman so much as looking at him. As the door closed he heard a light laugh, as if one of them had said something endearingly funny, as if the horrors he had been put through were just an afternoon’s tea party. This visit had only lasted minutes, they had only asked him about the poison once, and he was shivering, tears still pouring from his eyes, the discomfort of his body fluids becoming more and more noticeable. The poison itself took days, weeks, even if they were lying about slowing its progress, Maddox had assured him it could not be spread except through a wound, there was no need for an antidote. The Elder One had no use for failure, he would abandon Samson as he had Alexius and Lucius. All he could do now was pray that somehow the poison would kill quickly so he could meet his own end.

\------

“Did he believe you?” Morrigan didn’t care about Samson, Evelyn could flay him for real if she wished. But being given an antidote would make life significantly easier. Dorian had returned to Cullen, not wanting any part in her mad scheme and she was glad he didn’t hear the things she had done to the Red General.

“I believe he did,” Leliana replied, frowning. “Which makes his insistence that there is no cure a troubling one.”

“There must be something, he must be hiding it from us, hoping we’ll give up.” The thought of having to do that again, doing it daily for who knew how long, made her sick to her stomach. Most of it had been illusion and the power of suggestion, a little mild nerve stimulation, but it still revolted her. That wouldn’t stop her, she would torture Samson every day, do everything she had seen done to others, at least in his mind, if that was what it took, but she had hoped he would give them something at least.

“Will I have him cleaned up, Inquisitor?” Leliana was watching her sympathetically, knowing she had lied about the impact this would have on her, knowing she would do it anyway. As the Spymaster would herself, if required.

“No. Leave him til the morning. Still chained, still filthy, no food or water. In the morning I’ll see him again. The guards can sluice him down and I can heal him without him noticing, he’ll still feel the pain, but there won’t be any actual damage. I need him to know I’m serious. If we clean him up a couple of hours later he won’t believe I can do what I’ve said, and if he doesn’t believe it I might have to actually do it.” She nodded and withdrew, leaving the two mages together.

“Are you well, Inquisitor?” Morrigan had offered to do this, Leliana too, but Evelyn was the only one who knew how to do it without doing real harm to the subject, perverting skills she had spent a decade using to help people. She had no regret about doing it, no qualms when her husband and one of her best friends were both infected, along with countless others, but that didn’t make it easy.

“Not really, Morrigan, but thank you for asking. Did you and Dorian discover anything?”

“Not as yet, but I’m sure we will. The Tevinter is a most accomplished mage, and intelligent too. Not at all what I was expecting, if truth be told, for someone so attached to a brawny warrior type.”

“Cullen isn’t all brawn, Mor. You should get to know more people here, you might be pleasantly surprised.” The Witch snorted and waved her hand.

“I have no wish to interact with people more than I already do, in fact, I would appreciate less interaction generally, outside of Kieran and Leliana. And yourself, of course. But Dorian is tolerable, I will admit. Cullen reminds me of Alistair, without the humour or the innocence but all of the annoying surety that metal and pointy sticks can solve the world’s problems.”

Evelyn giggled, “Cullen has a dry wit but according to Dorian he’s absolutely no innocent.” Then she sobered. “Is there really nothing at all?”

“Very little, I’m sorry. Red lyrium is not mentioned in any of Dorian’s books, none of the knowledge in my head seems to be related to it. Adan and Elan are working on the other ingredients in the poison, but it is the red lyrium that we have no way to counter. Templars seem particularly vulnerable to it, mages hardly at all, since the Venatori must have been exposed repeatedly. We know mages process lyrium in their bodies while it builds up in Templars and essentially poisons everyone else, some of the ordinary soldiers have already died in spite of doing what we can to slow it. But what we can do with that knowledge I do not know. We cannot turn Templars into mages.”

Evelyn stiffened, “Morrigan, what if that was exactly what we _could_ do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Please excuse me, I have some research to find.” The Inquisitor ran from the room, leaving a baffled apostate looking after her, worried that the strain was too much and she had finally cracked.

Evelyn ran straight to her rooms and flicked through scrolls left discarded at the bottom of a trunk. When she had requested her notes be sent, Owen had packed up everything she had written, not just the things that would be helpful to Cullen. She found the ones she was looking for and took off again, heading for Cullen’s Tower this time.

When she climbed into his room, Cullen was sitting up in bed, Dorian opposite him with the chessboard on a bed table between them. They had both turned to look as they heard her rush in and practically jump up the ladder and both shouted in protest as she lifted the chessboard and it’s pieces and dumped them on the floor beside the bed. Instead she spread the scroll on the table, scooping up both Divines to hold the corners down. Dorian leaned forward, peering at the tight script, looking up at her briefly with surprise before reading avidly down the page. Cullen just looked at her.

“Evelyn, what’s wrong.” She could have cried. His skin was pale, almost waxy, red lines creeping out around the edges of the dressing she had redone this morning. Dagna was working on using Samson’s runes to slow the effect but she hadn’t found the answer yet and time was running out. Especially when Cullen’s wound was tiny compared to those left behind in the Arbor Wilds.

“I think I can heal you.”

“That’s wond…”

“Don’t! Don’t say it’s wonderful till you’ve heard me out. I don’t know if it’s possible, I don’t know if it will help even if it works. You could die anyway.” She was babbling, she knew, and Dorian’s eyes grew wider and wider as he scanned down the page.

“Vela? Where did you get this?”

“It’s mine, my research, from before. It’s what I was working on before the Blight, before the fall of Kinloch Hold. Then I mainly put it aside, I had too much other work to do, I practically forgot it. But with what Cassandra said a few months ago, about the Seekers, and Tranquillity, and Mor was talking about how our bodies process lyrium. Have you seen any mage lyrium-monsters?” For a moment his face lit up, then it fell again.

“Yes, we have, Vela. Remember, in the future, we found Fiona, she was being consumed by it.”

“Consumed, but she was still her, she said they gave them more and more and more until they became it. You saw how fast that happened in Sahrnia, after a year of being fed it, Fiona was still herself. Dorian, it might be the only chance we have.”

“Will someone please explain what is going on!” The mages jumped at the command, turning to look at a Cullen who had been trying to make himself heard and finally used his ‘new recruit’ tone to get their attention. “Evelyn, please explain what you mean. Dorian, you can nitpick at the end.”

Evelyn drew in a deep breath, fidgeting with the blankets that covered the Commander who smiled and pulled them from her hand.

“Unless you want to see more of me than you really need to, my lady, I would leave those covers alone.” She blushed at the thought. Cullen was as physically attractive as Dorian or Killian in his own way and at another time or place she might have entertained the idea but this was neither. 

“I’m sorry, Cullen.” She took another breath and looked at him. “Mages process lyrium in their bodies. Ordinary people are poisoned by it, if given repeatedly it invariably kills. Templars are something of an in-between. The lyrium isn’t used by the body, but it is stored. It’s like the difference between someone who contracts the Blight, like poor Felix, and a Grey Warden. It will kill, eventually, but it takes far longer and gives some advantages first.

“We know that some people are magic-sensitive and the strongest sensitives make the strongest Templars. King Alistair had only taken tiny amounts of lyrium and only before he became a Warden, yet from all accounts he can still wield the powers like a full Templar when needs be. Cullen, you were fed huge amounts of lyrium for years, especially in Kirkwall, but your powers disappeared almost completely when you stopped taking it.” She put her hand on his arm. “I don’t say that to make you feel inferior, love.”

“Noted,” he said wryly. “So how does this help us?”

Dorian had picked up the scroll, going over one part again and again. “She thinks that some people will naturally become mages, but far more people could actually learn to be mages, or be triggered in some way to make a latent ability become active.”

“It explains how some rogues can disappear into shadows, how Hawke can appear directly behind a target as if she had just Fade stepped. Or how a shout from a warrior can boost the strength of an ally or weaken a foe. They could potentially have learned to use magic, possibly even do use it subconsciously in some way, not enough to alert templars or draw demons. I think because Templars do use magic, even if they refuse to call it that, but very rarely and in very limited circumstances, I think that potential is like a tap that has been turned on only enough to drip occasionally.”

“So if you can open that tap fully, my body would be able to process the lyrium out of me, red and blue? And that would make me what? A mage?”

“Not exactly. I would open channels that are already there, the talents you learned as a Templar would be stronger, your body would hopefully start processing the lyrium. But whether you could learn magic in the way we do? Or if it would make you susceptible to demons? If it would even work? I just don't know. You have to decide if it's worth the risks.”

“Her research is sound, _Amatus_. I think this may indeed be our only hope.”

“What do you have to do?”


	18. Awakening

They rode. So fast and too slow, grey rock and white snow gave way to yellowed grasslands, becoming deeper, greener, the air now hot and heavy, humming of insects, trickling water then gurgling then gushing through lush greens and browns, sounds changing as they neared the stricken camp, groans and weeping and cries and quiet soothing from healers and shieldmates. A journey of days not noticed, oblivious to food and rest, only enough to keep going, to keep mounts from faltering, minds filled with hopes and plans, picking at logic, testing theories, grasping at straws. 

It was the closest they had ever been to truly arguing. Evelyn had insisted she needed Dorian, needed his knowledge, his power, his brilliant mind to help her work this out. He had point blank refused, unwilling to leave Cullen, unreasonable in his defiance until she explained her plan as well as she could. Then it was Cullen’s turn to protest, to refuse her logic. Cullen had always been able to get under her skin, no matter how close they had become, and Dorian was forced to play peacemaker to them both before Vela followed through on her threat to have the Commander chained to the wall until she returned. So they rode, just the two of them, mounted on the swiftest dracolisks Dennet could provide. Where he had found a second Desert Lightning to match Niblet she didn't care, she was just grateful Dorian rode him with the ease of one trained since childhood. Horses would have taken too long. 

The camp was grim. Only the most seriously wounded and those infected by the red lyrium poison remained with the most skilled healers and a handful of auxiliaries. Adan had travelled with the army, Elan remained in Skyhold researching the poison with Dagna. They were communicating with ravens and Evelyn hoped the apothecary had news for her. Samson had given up what he knew, Leliana was focusing on getting other information from him, and what he knew was next to nothing. A man of little subtlety, he knew it worked and not much more. Thankfully, the poison was in short supply and the Venatori had orders to target officers or significant threats. She had no idea if her cure would work for the magic-sensitives, it almost certainly wouldn’t work for anyone else. The poison itself was complex, requiring significant healing power to clear and the herbalists were working on a cure, but it was the red lyrium that Evelyn had to focus on, the poison a blind to the true danger.

Charter met them as they entered the camp. Not bothering with unnecessary chatter, she led them straight to one of the tents at the edge of the camp nearest the battlefield, then took the dracolisks to see them fed and cared for while Evelyn and Dorian rushed into the tent. Killian was bathed in sweat, his skin grey, red creeping up his veins from the gaping wound in his side, a wound that was unbandaged thanks to the crystals poking their way out. Evelyn recognised the mage with him, a healer named Aris who had followed Fiona from the Cumberland Circle to Redcliffe and then Skyhold.

“Your Worship, Lord Pavus.” Aris inclined his head towards them and continued wringing out cloths steeped in herb soaked water to place over the open wound. “The apothecaries have sent word of a cure for the poison itself, we have people out looking for the necessary ingredients now. They say you may have a solution to the red lyrium infection?”

Evelyn nodded, struck dumb at the pulsating red growing out of her beloved, at his fever and blank gaze, not even registering that she was in the room. This was worse than finding him in the Fade, at least then he had remembered her. She heard Dorian mouth non-committal platitudes and gently ease Aris out the tent while she sat in the small stool beside the bed and took Killian’s hand.

“Kil? Sweetheart? It’s me, Evelyn. Killian?”

He looked at her and vague recognition dawned.

“Evie? Is everything ok?” She took his hand in hers.

“It’s fine, love. How are you feeling?”

“I took a wound, I can feel it. There was a battle. Are you ok? I took Aiden to your brother. Ariana couldn’t wait to see her baby brother. You look a little pale, love, I hope you weren’t too tired after the birth?”

“It’s fine, Killian. Aiden and Ariana are fine, safe and sound. I’m tired because I’m worried about you, you took a wound remember?” She tried to keep her voice level, kept the tears from her eyes by sheer force of will as she stroked his hand, sending energy into him, hoping to at least break the fever so they could talk. 

“A wound. Yes, I remember. It hurts. Is Max ok? We got separated from you and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Max isn’t here, sweetheart. Your wound was poisoned. I think I can fix it, if you let me.”

“Why wouldn’t I, you’re the best healer I ever met?”

“There are risks.”

He looked at her, his eyes suddenly clear, he looked at Dorian too, standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder as if he could pass strength into her by his fingertips.

“The Wilds, a Venatori got me, didn’t they?” She nodded and he looked down at his side, then laid his head back wearily. “How many?”

“About forty. Mostly minor wounds, yours is the worst.”

“Then you should heal them first.” He seemed to be taking things in now, his hand shook less in hers. His eyes flicked up to Dorian, seeing something there that made him frown faintly. “Cullen?” Dorian could only nod and Evelyn’s throat threatened to close over.

“Kil? Everyone else is stable for now, they have time. But your wound… it’s deep. I… I might be able to fix the infection but…” She took a deep breath. She had to tell him, she had to offer him the chance and let him choose. “I can’t test this on Cullen, the Inquisition needs him alive, he can’t be replaced. And… I don’t know if I’m right about this, if I ask an ordinary soldier, they’ll never say no, not to me. And then if I fail…” 

“Angel, I’m dying. I know that, I can feel it, reality is slipping through my fingers and I feel like I’m stuck in the Fade again.” He stroked her cheek and she could hear the love in his voice. “You can’t experiment on Cullen…”

“Cullen doesn’t agree.” Dorian’s voice was stilted, restrained emotion making it harsh.

Killian continued as if Dorian had never spoken. “You can’t experiment on the Commander of your armies, and I know you, Evie, you’d never forgive yourself if you killed a soldier who only said yes because you asked. If it doesn’t work, you’ll have to do that anyway. You’ve always been able to do whatever was needed, no matter what it cost you. That’s why Andraste chose you.”

“I wasn’t Chosen, Kil. There was no Andraste there, you know that! It was bad luck and it cost me Max and it almost cost me you, and of I lose you now…”

“Then I’ll be grateful you found me in the Fade and we had these last weeks together. I love you, Evie. I trust you. You’ll beat this, if not this time then you’ll keep trying until you do, I know you will. If the Maker allows, I’ll be beside you when you destroy Corypheus. If he doesn’t, I know you’ll carry on and you’ll take our children to that cottage in Rivain and raise them in the world  _ you _ saved. Dorian, if this doesn’t work, look after her.” The mage could do nothing but nod, squeezing Evelyn’s shoulders as if he could make this work by force of will alone. She was frozen in place, to move meant she would have to begin, to take a chance with the love of her life, to risk him to save the world. Then she steeled herself, drawing up the will that had held her together since the day she walked into the Circle, the determination that had pushed her since she walked out of the Fade.

She moved to the top of the bed and laid her hands on either side of his head. Killian lay back and closed his eyes, fever already returning as Evelyn withdrew her power to focus it on the task ahead. Dorian stood beside her, lyrium potions already lined up, ready to offer his power to her, to push them both as far as necessary, inside praying to the Maker that this would work, that he wasn’t about to help his best friend kill her husband, that his own love wouldn’t be condemned to the same slow death before his eyes. They had decided not to bring anyone else into this, if their combined power couldn’t do it, then it couldn’t be done. There had only been one healer more skilled than Evelyn, and he had died in Kirkwall, his throat slit by his lover as the stones of the Chantry he destroyed fell about him. If they couldn’t do it, no one else had a chance.

Waves of blue energy pulsed over him, surrounding the festering wound, cleaning it as best she could before moving on, seeking out tiny bundles of nerves that vibrated in time with her magic. The first was in his spine, just behind the wound, marking his centre of gravity. It pulsed gently, muffled, and part of her mind noted the lyrium, red and blue, wound round the nerve fibres, intertwined and moving in time with the magical energy. She moved deftly, inside the nerves, seeking a path for her power, finding it and pushing it open gently, feeling as the newly opened channels drew lyrium into the cells, as it was altered, red and blue merging, flaring yellow then disappearing, more drawn in to fill the gap, channels shutting briefly until she drew off the mana, merging it with her and Dorian’s, using it to power the search for the next bundle, it’s lack opening the channels again to draw more lyrium in and Evelyn siphoned more mana off. She moved down, two more bundles lay below, each stimulated until it drew in the lyrium that wrapped around the nodes, each flaring a different colour as they burned, fueling Evelyn’s search as she started up his body to his heart, his throat, his brow and finally to the largest node, sitting just under the crown, deep within his brain, strands of lyrium working its way throughout, far larger here than anywhere else, dug deep into the brain. Opening the channels drew the lyrium, slowly, from where it had soaked in, pulling it from the memory centre, flaring deep purple as blue and red merged and dissolved, Evelyn drawing more and more mana, purging the poison and the wound rot, closing torn vessels and ripped muscle, the red was almost gone, the blue still coming, years and years of lyrium build up, drawn from all the tissues of his body, eaten up by seven bundles of nerves activated, pooling mana into his body that she now used to renew Dorian, draining it as she would for any mage suffering lyrium shock. Finally, every speck of red was gone from his body, most of the blue as well, the rest still being drawn in and converted, even without Evelyn stimulating the channels within the cells, now a process as much a part of his body as it was hers. She was exhausted, her own mana drained, the power she had given to Dorian pouring back into her as she continued to repair the damage done to Killian’s body, seeking particles of rot that had broken off the wound and travelled through his body, faltering kidneys, liver, spleen, so many things going on below the surface. His heart and lungs were struggling to keep up so she bolstered them, all the mana from his body used, hers disappearing fast. She drew on her own life force, forcibly pushing Dorian from the loop when he had nothing left to give, using her own energy as she heard the Tevinter shout at her, pushing and pulling her, trying to break the grip she had on Killian, all her determination, her heart and soul committed to pulling him back, her mind screaming denial as it wasn’t enough, unaware of the fact she was chanting his name, begging him to stay with her, not to leave her alone, if he couldn’t stay, to take her with him, not to leave her behind. There was a stir in the connection between them as Killian pulled the last remnants of lyrium from his body by himself, burning them to give him the power to replicate what Evelyn had done to Dorian, pushing her away and severing the link between them, one last ghost of a kiss and, just as she fell back into Dorian’s arms and lost consciousness, one last message.

_ I love you, Evie. _


	19. Alone

_ Skyhold is full of raucous celebration. Dancing and singing and drinking and in nine months time the halls will be filled with new life, the screams of wounded soldiers a memory echoing in the screams of babies conceived on this night and those to come. The wards on my balcony used to keep all noise out. The wards are gone now, my purpose is done and I have no need for their protection. The music and cheering are carried on waves of icy wind, biting my cheeks and fingers, my body as cold as my heart. _

_ They don’t know how close it was. We barely made it back, if Dorian hadn’t been desperate about Cullen I might not have left the Wilds at all. I would still have been there, holding him, while the world ended around us. I might not have cared. _

_ The anchor is still there, the Breach is gone, Corypheus is gone, but still my hand glows green. I would ask Solas but he is also gone.  _

_ The cure worked. It worked. The ones who weren’t Fade-sensitive died. The ones whose wounds were too grave, died. But Cullen is well, Rylen is well, others are well. _

_ We won. _

_ Thedas is safe, but in chaos. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been told I’m still needed. I wonder if they think I would walk away, now, when all I have left are the people here, when this is my only home? Do they think I would go to Rivain? To try to live the life we wanted, without him, drag my children away from their parents, the ones who raised them, who love them, trying to capture something that will never exist? _

_ Perhaps they think I would simply open a rift and walk into the Fade, closing it behind me? Perhaps I should have, if I hadn’t come back from the Temple this time, would it have made a difference to them? They would mourn, I hope, then move on, fixing the things that are left to fix in their own ways. But I came back, I can’t walk away, I wish I were done, I wish so much that it was time to go, to find Killian and Max somewhere  _ beyond _. One day. Not yet. _

_ I can hear them on the stairs. They never leave me too long. It’s not intrusive, their care, they don’t smother me with food, with touch, with exhortations to do better, to be better. They’re just there. They see the gaping hole inside me and don’t try to fill it and I love them for that. I’m not done, I need to go on, with them I know I can do anything I need to do, be anything I need to be, until it’s over and I can rest. _


	20. Epilogue

_ This isn’t supposed to be happening. _ Evelyn ignored the voice in her head, muted by alcohol and grief and need, and focused on the sensations surrounding her. Warm, soft lips moved against hers, firm tongue invading her mouth, massaging her own as broad hands kneaded her breasts. How long had it been since someone touched her like this? Nothing impersonal or professional, no solicitous caring. There was nothing gentle about his fingers pinching her nipples, sending sparks to her core, every tweak her body drenching her smallclothes with lust. Her nails dragged across the muscled back leaving deep red lines and he hissed into her mouth, nipping her lower lip with his teeth. One hand stroked down her body, smoothly following the line of her hip, grasping her arse and pulling him against his swollen cock. She ground against it, her slit rubbing along the line of it, thick head pushing against her clit, the pressure building in her, deep breathing turning to moans and then whimpers as he pushed her off him, into other arms.

Those arms held her, safe, secure, wrapping around her while words of love and worship were whispered into her ears. Softer kisses began to rain down on her skin, behind her ear, down her neck, while long, delicate fingers moved her against him, spreading her over his legs, her back to his firm chest. She opened her eyes, brown meeting amber for a moment as Cullen knelt before her, holding her gaze as he lowered his mouth to her core, a soft breath blowing cool air that both tickled and inflamed her before he began to move against her, licking and sucking on her, his hands meeting Dorian’s on her legs, fingers clasping as he watched them both above him.

“Doesn’t he look beautiful on his knees, darling? That warm mouth does such wicked things. Will he make you scream, as he makes me scream when he sucks my cock? He’s going to lick and suck that pretty little pearl of yours till his face is soaked and you’re going to lick every bit of your nectar off him. Then he’s going to fuck you, my Vela, he’s going to fill you so nicely. And when he’s deep inside you, I’m going to finger him open and fill him and fuck him. When he moves into you, it’ll be because I’m pushing into him. If you want it slow and gentle, tell me now, my love, because once I’m inside him, once that tight, hot ass surrounds my dick, I’m not going to want to be slow, or gentle, I’m going to fuck you both hard and fast so you feel it tomorrow. Do you want it slow, my dove?”

Dorian’s words were matched by nipping kisses to her neck, one hand still entangled with Cullen’s, the other pinching her nipple hard enough to hurt while Cullen’s tongue fucked into her in time with his beloved’s filthy words, his free hand rubbing against her clit then sliding down, through her juices and his saliva, soaking fingers that sought, then circled, then entered her tight ass, setting her body on fire as she came hard, fluid soaking his face as she screamed, unable to think, to forms words, lost in the lightning pouring through her.

She came back to earth to the feel of a body on either side, holding her tightly as she sobbed, all barriers between them broken down. They only held her, waiting for her shaking to stop, waiting for the tears to dry on her cheeks. She looked at them both and they looked at her with love and concern in their eyes.

“Too much?” Dorian was hesitant, worried about her reaction. This had been his idea and he wasn’t as confident as he liked to seem. He was leaving for Tevinter in a week, tonight when none of them had meetings or guests or other duties had seemed ideal. He loved her so much, as much as he loved Cullen, and as hard as it would be to leave them, leaving them together felt better, felt right. But he had worried, that they would avoid each other, that they would repress their feelings out of some fear of betraying him, that when they gave in to those feelings it would hurt them to think they had hurt him. So he had got them drunk, told them his ideas and then thoroughly enjoyed watching them together. Vela’s soft skin and full breasts were so far from what he was used to, but there was an aesthetic pleasure in touching, in kissing and fondling, while watching Cullen use his beautiful, talented mouth to bring his darling to ecstasy. He looked at her now, lying in their arms and relaxed at the utter contentment he saw in her reddened, tear stained face.

“Hmmm,” She burrowed into them, bringing first Cullen then Dorian down for a delicate kiss. “Just right.” She looked up at them and her expression became wicked. “Now, I’m sure I was promised a hard fuck from two strapping men?” They laughed together and Vela pulled Cullen on top of her, kissing and licking her essence from his face, while Dorian fumbled to find the oils he had hidden earlier, deciding that this had definitely been a good idea.

\------

_ Why can I still feel it? Why does my brain still think it’s there? _

Staring at the bandaged stump gave no answers. Nerves that felt a whole arm and fingers, that sometimes reached for something, only to miss it entirely, those nerves told her brain something that simply wasn’t true, not any more. The absence of pain had been a relief at the time, but so often she felt that pain again, shooting down a limb that wasn’t there, no potion or remedy able to dull a pain that had no origin. It wasn’t like the pain the anchor had brought since she stepped out of the Fade, not even like the pain of its constant flaring when she still didn’t know if Solas had severed her arm from a wish to possess the anchor or remnants of their past companionship. It wasn’t like anything she knew.

“ _ Amata _ ?” This time with Dorian had been special. He had stayed after the Council, refusing to leave her while she healed, ignoring ever sharper missives from Maevaris about his dereliction of duty. She had met the blonde woman on a visit to Minrathous last year. They got on well and she knew Mae would not grudge her Dorian’s support, nor would she grudge his own need to be with Cullen for as long as possible. But there was finally the possibility of change in the Magisterium and Dorian was at the forefront of it. He could only spend so long away at such a critical time before they risked losing momentum. So he was leaving, again.

She looked up at him, her face calm as she noted his travelling clothes, the cloak in his arms.

“Already?” He nodded and held out his arms. She sank into the hug, her stomach churning with nerves. When she pulled back to look at him, he smiled and moved away to look around her room.

“I’ll miss this old place, draughts and all. Everything good about me, I found here.” She reached up and pulled him down to kiss him then leaned against his chest.

“Everything good about you was always there,  _ Amatus _ . We simply helped you find it.”

They walked down to the courtyard where Cullen was waiting. Dorian looked nervous and suddenly Vela knew what he was going to say, so she put her hand over his mouth.

“Dorian Pavus, we are coming with you to Minrathous. If you’ve changed your mind, we’ll just follow behind and Josie will have an estate bought and organised for us before we even cross the sea and you’ll still have to put up with the pair of us.” She ignored all attempts to move away from her hand, and she ignored Cullen’s laughter in the background. “The Inquisition’s time is done, it’s our time now. So what will it be? Are we together? Or will we haunt you like two very annoying, very visible ghosts?” He nodded and she moved her hand, pushing him gently towards his husband while she checked all the belongings that hadn’t already been sent to Dorian’s estate were well secured. With one last goodbye to Mother Giselle and the orphaned children who had taken over Skyhold in place of the warriors and mages and healers it had once held, the three of them rode towards Tevinter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor babies are tough, and they deserve their happy ending together. Dorian and Cullen had to get married, as much as they both love Vela and she loves them. Dorian is gay, Vela's straight and Cullen adores them both and it works for them. Tevinter won't know what's hit it when these three get there.


End file.
